The Fountain
by Cap'nHoozits
Summary: A poor young Ishvalan street musician has a chance encounter that changes his life forever. Pre-manga prequel to Sons of the Desert. Contains OCs. Rated T for language, thematic material, and some domestic violence.
1. Chapter 1

**As mentioned, this is a prequel to Sons of the Desert, which you don't necessarily have read first (although I hope you do). It is a backstory for an OC I created, and I promise that Scar is actually in this story, but not for a little while yet.**

**Here's a brief glossary of Ishvalan terms I have come up with:**

_**Halmi:**_** Ishvalan version of mescal (roughly 100 proof), a contraction of _halik _(silver) and _mitat _(fire)**

_**Vatrishi: **_**street musicians**

_**Falsha: **_**prostitute. plural _falshaii_**

_**Zhaarad:**_** Master, term of respect. plural: **_**zhaaradii**_

_**Saahad:**_** Master, term of respect specifically for priests. Plural: **_**saahadii.**_

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><p><strong>The Fountain<strong>

I really didn't feel like going home. Up until about six months ago it actually was a home, even though it didn't look like much. Now I didn't know what to call it. My bed was there. My stuff was there.

My dad was there.

But somebody had to make dinner, not that anybody else would eat it. Katri said she didn't like to eat before she danced. She said it made her want to puke. Fine. It would keep.

Dad was just living on _halmi,_ grief, and anger.

I couldn't afford to do that. I was the one keeping us all together, such as we were. I had to go into Ishval proper (a term that had two meanings to it—_we_ weren't proper) and find a place to play where I wouldn't get chased off.

_Beat it, your dirty desert rat! You're driving my customers away!_

_You need to move along now, boy. You've been there long enough._

Granted, there were some who appreciated my singing and my lute playing. They'd listen for a bit, toss me a few coins, then move on. I couldn't depend on them too much, though.

My best take was usually from the soldiers. I even put Amestrian words to some of my tunes, which they seemed to like. They didn't look down on me the way other Ishvalans did. They just looked down on me because I was Ishvalan, which was kind of a step up. Also, it was nearing the turn of the century and they were feeling festive. We didn't think it was such a big deal.

Today I had a pretty decent take. I bought some oranges, a very small bag of tea, a jar of honey, and some flatbread. I rolled them up in the hem of my shirt and finally started for home. When I got there, the sun was just setting. I pushed open the burlap curtain that was our front door and stepped into the first room.

Our house was a mish-mash of bricks and mortar, boards, patches of canvas and burlap, anything my dad had been able to scrounge up over the years. It was sturdy, more or less, and it boasted two rooms. Katri and I slept in the front one (she took the farthest spot from me she could get) and Dad slept in the back. He'd actually been pretty proud of our little place. Now he didn't care much.

I stood for a moment, listening for signs of life. "Dad?" I called out tentatively. "I'm home. I got some flatbread. It's a little stale, so they gave it to me cheap. I got oranges, too. And tea. You want me to make some?"

"He's not here, Dejan!" A rustle of fabric signaled Katri's arrival. She marched in and gave me her usual wary glare. "You got oranges?"

"Yeah. You want one?"

She just held out her hand. No please, no thanks, no nothing. What did I expect? I handed her an orange. She could manage an orange before we went to Vashto's. She could dance up a storm, but I think a lot of her problem was just nerves, not that she would admit it. It sure made my stomach turn to see the way the men watched her. They knew they weren't supposed to touch her. Even the soldiers knew that. Anyone who tried would have to deal with my dad, who had gotten a lot meaner lately. Besides that, she was just a kid. She might be shaped like a woman, but she was only fourteen, a year younger than me.

So why was a fourteen-year-old girl dancing in skimpy clothes in a tavern-slash-brothel?

Because we were _vatrishi_, and this was how we lived. My dad played the fiddle, the lute, the bagpipe, whatever he felt like that night. I was his drummer. Katri danced. And that was all she did, I swear! Old Vashto sold them _halmi_ that he and my dad made, and beer when he could get it. Sometimes my mom would even come in and sing. Once the customers were loose and relaxed, Katri came out and got them horny. Then she disappeared and the men would take their custom to the rooms in the back where the _falshaii_ waited for them.

We did this every night. For a while, it was actually kind of fun. When my dad and I really got going, we were good. It was sort of like a party every night. Then my mom died.

I'm not going to go into a lot of detail. She started getting sick, we never made enough money to afford a real doctor, and by the time my dad swallowed his distrust and his pride and went to the priests, it was too late. They offered to help us out, say a bunch of extra prayers and get us medicine to at least ease Mom's pain, but by then Dad was so bitter and angry at God that he spat on their charity. He buried Mom himself. He was never quite right after that.

I put the rest of my purchases on the little table. "So where is he?" I asked.

Katri bit into the orange's skin and ripped off a mouthful of rind. She spat it out on the floor.

"Pick that up!" I snapped at her.

She gave me a sullen glare, but she picked it up and went to the door with it. Pushing the curtain aside, she tossed it out. Then she sat in the doorway, pulling off pieces of orange peel and tossing them as far as she could throw them, a game that would keep her occupied for a few minutes.

I went to the door and stood behind her, leaning on the doorframe and looking out. "So where is he?" I asked again. "Did he already go to Vashto's?"

"Him and Vashto went to check their bottles," Katri replied, flinging a piece of peel at a cactus wren, making it fly off.

I sighed. That might not be a good thing. They had to check to see if the next batch of _halmi _was ready yet. That would include sampling some of it, so Dad would be a little toasted before we even got started.

I sat on the floor and leaned against the doorframe. I studied Katri's profile out of the corner of my eye. I've known her since she was little, and she kind of blossomed early. She had a delicate, sweet face and some very impressive curves. She also had a mouth like a drill sergeant. She caught me looking at her and she punched me in the chest with a hard little knot of a fist.

"What the hell are your starin' at?" she demanded.

She didn't have a lot of force behind that punch so I just smiled. "Nothing."

"Uh-_uh! _You're a liar, Dejan!" Katri muttered. "I don't like bein' looked at like that!"

"I wasn't looking at you dirty!" I protested. "I was just looking at your face. You're pretty, you know."

Compliments troubled her. She scowled. "Nuh-_uh_!" she mumbled.

"Yeah, you are! You're really pretty!" I gave her a little nudge with my knee.

She leaned away from me. "Stop it!" Her tone had gone from irritable to anxious. I'd gone a little too far.

"Sorry," I said quietly. "I'm the last person you have to be scared of. I wouldn't let anybody hurt you. You know that, right?"

"What the hell are you two sitting there for? God_dammit_, Katri, get ready!"

Katri scrambled to her feet and disappeared into the house. She wasn't afraid of my dad. She was probably the only person he was even remotely kind to in his rough way. But she did what he told her to do.

He strode up to the house. He was tall and he was thin. Thinner than he'd been before. He was a scarecrow that had no purpose. I worried about him a lot. If he fell over dead, Katri and I could still make it on our own, but I didn't really want that to happen. I just wanted him to be like he used to be.

I got to my feet. "I got some food," I said. "It's on the table."

He pushed me inside. I could smell the slight smokiness of the _halmi_ on him. "Get ready. It's payday for the soldiers." He kept track of stuff like that. We would be starting early. The soldiers would come first, while there was still some light.

The Ishvalans wouldn't show up until well after dark. They'd be craftsmen, merchants, husbands, fathers, "respectable" men. They didn't necessarily want to be seen.

"Dad, you should eat something," I said, heading toward the corner where my bed was and grabbing the strap of my drum. I used the more versatile finger drum for when Katri danced.

He just went back into his room. I heard some rustling and then the plinking of string and the scrape of a bow. The fiddle was always his favorite. He'd taught me the drum and the lute as soon as I could hold them. He'd started teaching me the bagpipe and the fiddle before Mom died. Then he stopped.

I stuffed a piece of flatbread in my mouth and wrapped the rest up in an old cloth before Dad came back out, fiddle in hand. A slight tinkling of metal signaled that Katri was getting her outfit on, and she emerged from behind the blanket hung in front of her bed. She had another blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

Dad gave us both a quick, business-like glance and jerked his head toward the door. We stepped out into the twilight and through the rag-tag community that was the _vatrishi_ camp. My dad was only about thirty-two or thirty-three, only a little more than twice my age at the time, but he was the unofficial leader of the _vatrishi_. There were older, wiser men with cooler heads, but none of them were anywhere near as good as my dad. It was something he used to take pride in.

Vashto's tavern looked a lot like our house, only a little sturdier and a lot bigger. A couple of soldiers were just walking in, and we paused slightly to give them a head start. Katri and I slipped in and tucked ourselves into a corner. Dad waited for the two Amestrians to get their drinks before he went up to the bar, which was really just a couple of long tables butted together end to end. Behind the tables stood a wiry old man whose right shoulder was noticeably higher than his left shoulder. It didn't stop him from playing, though. He was the one who taught Dad the fiddle, then Dad surpassed him. Vashto took it fairly well.

The old man was carefully polishing glasses with an immaculately clean cloth. His glasses were his pride and joy. It gave his establishment a touch of class. There were a couple of other places a little further out, but Vashto's had the best reputation, relatively speaking. There were taverns in Ishval Proper, but all they did was serve food, beer, and watered-down _halmi _or _halmi_ mixed with fruit juice. They also served as informal meeting places for influential citizens and the occasional low-spoken protest. No one cared about politics at Vashto's.

Vashto glanced up and jerked a nod to Dad. "Looks like a good house tonight, Shua," he remarked.

Dad just grunted in reply.

Vashto cocked an eye at me and Katri as he handed my dad a swallow's worth of _halmi_. "Her ma was asking about her."

Dad glared for a moment. "Tough shit," he muttered.

Vashto shrugged. "It was just in passing. Didn't mean anything."

My dad had a decent amount of respect for the women who worked in back, but he had taken it upon himself to yank Katri out of there before she had to follow in her mother's footsteps to earn her keep. She was a wild child, very likely half Amestrian, and my parents did what they could to teach her a few manners and give her as good a home as they could. She had no musical talent whatsoever, but she was a natural at making up dances whenever Dad practiced.

Dad turned and surveyed the room. A couple more soldiers entered, and the place was starting to fill up. He took his fiddle and looped the strap around his neck, settling the butt of the instrument against the hollow of his shoulder. He started playing. It wasn't so much a tune as just improvising, but the men at the tables grew quieter to listen.

_God_, he was good! In moments like this, I was so damn proud of him it nearly brought tears to my eyes. I could just sit and listen to him all night. It made me feel like there was still a little hope in the world.

Katri sat tensely next to me, her eyes closed. It wasn't time for her just yet, but she was getting herself prepared. She knew what she was doing, and she always put on a good show, as much as she hated it. She once confided in me that she blanked out the faces of the men and just concentrated on the music.

My dad ended to a patter of applause and he gave a bow of his head. He'd put them in a good mood, put them at their ease, and most of them went for another round of drinks. By ones and twos, more came. There was definitely going to be a good crowd, and even a few Ishvalans had shown up, sitting in the far corners.

Lanterns were lit and hung, and Dad nodded to us. We stood up and I took the blanket Katri handed to me. She had on a dark red skirt that started low on her hips and stopped above her knees. Her top was made of the same fabric and hung loosely from thin shoulder straps down to just above her navel. It had little round bits of metal sown at the edges of the top and the skirt that tinkled when she moved and also weighted the edges down. This was the only time she wore it, and she took extremely good care of it. My mom had made it for her from fabric that we got cheap from one of the Xingese caravans. My dad had to swear up and down that he wouldn't let anybody lay a finger on her.

The men around the tables stirred attentively in their seats and the room quieted again. I moved near my dad and made a few flutters on the edge of the drum head, and I ended with a sharp tap to the middle, which made a deeper sound. Dad laid his bow to the strings and started with a slow, deep note, rising serpent-like up a minor scale. Katri raised her arms above her head and with a dip of her knees, she started to move.

Sometimes she followed the rhythm I laid down, sometimes I would drum in time to the movement of her hips. Dad basically followed us. They weren't listening to him anymore, anyway. The tables were arranged in a kind of horseshoe shape, leaving a space in the middle where Katri did her act. She didn't show off any more skin than she needed to. What jiggled underneath was often enough. Many of the men were regulars, and they knew the drill. They might make a playful, desultory swipe at the edge of her skirt as she twirled by them, but that was about it. There were some newcomers, though. I had to keep my eye on them, as little as I liked to see the looks on their faces. I tended to pay more attention to what Katri was doing, especially lately.

If _I_ ever touched her, Dad would break my arm. Hell, _she'd_ break my arm. But come on! I was fifteen. As protective as I was of her, how was I not to look? I guess I got distracted. My fingers moved up and down on my drum, deep, high, deep, deep, high. Her hips swung in perfect time. I couldn't even tell which one of us was setting the rhythm. She dropped to her knees and leaned way back, drawing the hem of her skirt slowly up her thighs. I hated it when she did that, but I kept up a steady trill for her until she twisted around to hop back on her feet in a single, fluid movement.

The soldiers ate it up. One of them a little too much. He looked new and must have come early. A little too much _halmi_ on an already overheated brain that wasn't used to it always raised the stupidity factor. As Katri stepped by him, swinging a hip in his direction, he reached out and put his hand up her skirt.

"Show us what you got under there, girl!" he drawled.

Katri hardly ever dropped her guard, even at home. When she let out a startled cry, her rhythm and concentration broken, she sounded terrified. It was something that always lurked below the surface but never showed itself. It hit my ears with such a shock that I reacted without thinking. Even before my dad could make a move, I lunged forward and pushed the soldier as hard as I could against his chest, sending him and his already rickety chair backwards into the soldier seated behind him. He, in turn, fell back against the table, tipping that over and sending three of Vashto's precious glasses and a half bottle of _halmi_ crashing to the floor.

Lucky me, I landed on top of the heap. When the soldier got over his initial surprise, he realized I was lying on top of him, my face just a couple of inches away from his. He wasn't pretty to start with, and he got a lot uglier as rage replaced surprise. He was drunk, he was muscular, he was mad, but I was quicker, thanks be to Ishvala. I rolled off him and ducked under the closest upright table, my drum still slung over one shoulder. Unfortunately, I underestimated his reaction time. I felt a hand grab my ankle and I was dragged right out of my drum strap and out from under the table. I was pulled to my feet by a handful of my hair, and through my watery vision I could make out a fist heading toward my face. I squeezed my eyes shut.

The fist never connected. The grip on my hair was released and I fell back on my ass. It had suddenly gotten really quiet. I opened my eyes to see my dad standing over me, holding a knife to the throat of my assailant. This tableau lasted for maybe three seconds. A couple of soldiers grabbed my dad by both arms and, to do them justice, they did the same to the other soldier, pulling the two of them apart. I scooted backwards out of the way.

I thought Vashto was going to cry. He scampered out from behind the bar, his hands raised placatingly.

"Peace, _zhaaradii,_ please!" he begged. "Nothing to worry about! Just a little mischief! No harm done! Shua!" He gave Dad a frantic, wide-eyed look. "Give as a tune!"

"Sorry, Vash," my dad muttered back. His arms were still pinned. "I'm a little busy."

One of the soldiers stepped forward. He had three bars and three stars on his shoulders, and the men all turned to him, their posture going straight.

"You can let go," he growled. He turned to my dad. "I should say that you folks need to learn some manners, but I'd have to say the same thing about my man here. So I won't report this."

My dad rolled his shoulders as his arms were released. He slipped his knife back into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back. "Fair enough," he replied easily. "My son's got the brains of a gnat. I apologize."

My assailant backed off with a sullen frown. "I thought this was a damn whorehouse!" he grumbled.

"It is," my father informed him. He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder toward where he figured Katri was standing. "She's a dancer. That's all." I couldn't see Dad's eyes from where I was, but I expect the tacit message in them was _touch her again and I'll slice off your balls. _"Got it?"

The soldier apparently didn't quite get it, but he didn't argue. Vashto had been collecting the bits of his precious glasses and the broken bottle. He then pushed the table and the chairs upright and backed away with a pathetic, bobbing bow. "There now, that's all right then! No harm done! Round of drinks on the house!"

That made me start. Vashto _never _did that, he was such a cheap bastard. But it seemed to mollify the crowd. They got back to their seats and hunkered over their table tops, waiting for their free liquor. But the mood was strained.

"Katri!" Vashto called out, beckoning to the girl. "Let's have—" He stopped suddenly at a look from my dad, who bent down over me.

"Take her home, you dumb shit!" he hissed close to my ear. "That free round's coming out of _my_ pocket!"

That didn't surprise me. I slowly got to my feet and turned to Katri. She had backed up against the wall, her arms folded tightly around her waist. I picked up the blanket and draped it over her shoulders. She gave me an angry glare, mainly because she had to do it to someone and she knew I'd take it, and I steered her out of the tavern.

We walked home without a word. I had a heavy, twisted feeling in my stomach. I felt like what I did was right, but all that booze was going to cost us. We'd probably have to pay for the broken glasses as well, because the Amestrians sure as hell weren't going to, and they were expensive.

For a moment, though, I felt a glimmer of hope. My dad had pulled a knife on an Amestrian soldier to defend me. That was pretty neat when I thought about it. Then my heart sank again. The wrath that would be unleashed on me over this escapade wouldn't come from the military. And I doubted very much that my dad would just sleep this one off.

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><p><strong>The "fiddle" that Shua is playing is based on a Balkan gadulka, and Dejan's drum is based on a dumbek or tablah.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**As promised, Scar is going to show up in this chapter. However, he will be introduced by his "real" name, the version I created for Sons of the Desert.**

**Chapter 2**

I slumped against the edge of the fountain. I had wandered into a quiet area of South Kanda. It was close to noon by now, and not that many people were out. I scooped a handful of water and sucked it painfully into my mouth, spitting it back into the fountain where the blood mingled and dissipated. I could just make out my reflection in the rippling surface of the water, and it wasn't a pleasant sight.

I had been dragged off my bed about an hour ago. I don't mean figuratively. A hand grabbed my leg and yanked me out. I was only barely awake enough to keep my face from bouncing off the floor. I had waited up until late for my dad to come home so we could get it over with, but I fell asleep before he showed up. I'd have thought he'd be too hung over the next morning to bother, but he must have gotten started with a hair of the dog.

He grabbed a handful of my shirt and hauled me to my feet, pulling my face close to his. Sure enough, the booze was on his breath.

"You miserable little _turd!_" he hissed. "Your little trick cost me _and_ Vashto! How many times have I fucking told you, when we're working, you don't talk, you don't step out of line, you don't fucking _think_ unless I tell you!" He shoved me back on the bed. "The place cleared out pretty damn quick after that. Vashto lost a shitload of business, and he's probably gonna lose more! All because you don't have a piss ant's morsel of sense in that skull of yours!"

I jumped back onto my feet and spread my hands. "Dad, I'm sorry! When that bluecoat grabbed Katri—"

"You let _me_ take care of Katri!" he bellowed back. "You let _me_ take care of the bluecoats _and_ the Ishvalans, quality or otherwise! Why do you think I tell you shit like that? Because I know you're gonna do something stupid!"

Maybe he needed to for his own reasons, but I didn't think he needed to be yelling that loud. "Calm down, Dad!" I begged. "I'll go back into town and I'll play and I'll work it off! I swear I will!"

"Oh, that's just great!" my dad drawled mockingly. "We'll all be old men before that happens!"

It was one thing to insult my intelligence. I'll admit what I did was dumb. It was another thing entirely to insult my talent. Now I was actually angry. "Get stuffed!" I shot back. "You just watch me! I'll pay Vashto back five times what he needs in less than a week! I'm good, and you know it!"

"Oh, please! It doesn't matter how damn good you think you are!" my dad sneered. "You're a dirty little desert rat! You'll always be a dirty little desert rat, and you're gonna die a dirty little desert rat! Just like me!"

"I am _not_ gonna die a dirty little desert rat!" I cried back defiantly. "I'm gonna get the hell out of this shithole someday!"

My father laughed harshly. "Sure you are!"

"I am! And I'm gonna take Katri with me!" I think I realized what having your blood boil meant. It made you stupid. "I'd take you with me, too, but you're nothing but a stinkin' drunk!"

He gave me a hard shove. "You're a lousy little good for nothing piece o' shit!"

"Don't _shove_ me!" I cried, shoving him back hard enough to get a look of surprise out of him. It gave me a burst of confidence, which ended up being a really bad thing. "Look at you!" I flung my arms out in a desperate gesture. "You think Mom woulda wanted you to turn out like this?"

I don't think I'd ever seen anything as scary as my dad's face at that moment. His features grew a mottled brick red and his eyes seemed to burn in their sockets. He'd hit me before, but usually only once and never as hard as he did just now. I'd never made him this mad before. I tried to fight back, but that only made him madder. He landed blow after blow and I just couldn't keep up. When he clipped my cheekbone with a stool he had thrown, I figured it was time to put some distance between us before I fell down and couldn't get back up.

I could see my purple, swollen eye. I could make out the dark line of the gash on my cheek, too. I cautiously splashed a little water on it, but that hurt like hell. I stood there for a moment, looking at the reflection of the kid with the messed up face, then I slapped the palm of my hand down on the surface of the water. I turned away and slouched down in the shadow of the fountain and pressed my hands against my forehead, only to find a lump rising there, too.

I stared at the ground and my vision started to blur. I couldn't live like this anymore, but I felt helpless to do anything about it. Tears started running down my face, stinging the hell out of my cuts. I sealed my lips against a sob, but it burst out, and then I couldn't stop crying. I wanted my mom. I wanted my dad. Not the one who had just beaten the crap out of me. The one who had put a lute into my hands and got me so excited about learning his craft. The one with the quick, wry smile. All my cuts, lumps, and bruises didn't hurt half as much as the pain in my heart.

"What's wrong? What happened to you?"

My head jerked up with a start. I had closed myself to the world around me and its intrusion came as a shock. I was able to open one eye. Crouching in front of me was a young man, older than me, maybe eighteen, maybe nineteen. He considered me with an intense, solemn gaze that I would have found a little disconcerting at the best of times. He had strong, angular features, and he smelled clean. When I got over my initial surprise, I felt embarrassed. I dragged my sleeve across my nose.

"I'm okay," I mumbled, hoping he would go away. He didn't.

"You look far from okay," he replied, a little drily. His voice was surprisingly deep. "Do you need help?"

I got stiffly to my feet and turned away from him. I splashed more water on my face. "I can handle it."

He had risen along with me. His shadow fell longer than mine. "That's a deep cut on your face. You should see a doctor."

That was a ridiculous notion. "I don't have any money."

"That doesn't matter. I can take care of that."

"Look," I said without turning around. My lip was swollen and talking was becoming an effort. "I don't know you from Ishvala's ass so how about you piss off and leave me alone."

He didn't reply at first. I thought perhaps I had offended him enough to make him leave, which was my intention. But then he said, rather matter-of-factly, "I have committed myself to God and to a life of prayer and charitable works. If I ever hear you blaspheme like that again, I'll smack you harder than whoever smacked you first."

I slowly looked over my shoulder and considered him a little more carefully. He was bigger than me, so I was pretty sure that if he wanted to, he could easily carry out his threat. Not surprisingly, his clothes were better than mine. Not just clean, but high quality. Maybe even linen. And of course, he wore a _chuva_, the striped sash, over his shoulder and around his waist. It was one of those things that made Ishvalans stand out. I didn't have one, which was a sign that my parents weren't married, which made me stand out even more. Then I recalled what he had said.

"So…you're a priest?" I asked warily.

He gave a slight inclination of his head. "I'm currently in my novitiate, which I'll complete in another year and a half."

I nodded. He might as well have been from another world, his life was so different from mine. "Well, good luck with that."

He seemed to accept my mild sarcasm with a good grace. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Dejan," I replied. He watched me, waiting for me to add my family name. I didn't have one. "Just Dejan."

"I am Andakar Ruhad."

Well, that was a mouthful. "Nice to meet you," I mumbled.

He eyed my swollen face critically. "Who did this to you?"

I hesitated. I was ashamed, but I wasn't a liar. "My dad."

He looked shocked, but then he didn't know my dad. Then he looked at me not so much with pity, but with a kind of understanding, which was kind of funny, considering how his father was probably a prominent member of society and a great guy. Maybe it was because of how he found me bawling. Maybe it was the defeat in my voice when I answered him. "I'm sorry," he said.

I shrugged. "Nothing you can do about it."

"That depends," Andakar replied. "Let me take you to get that cut looked at."

"Look, that's real decent, but I don't—"

"Dejan!" he said with sudden firmness. "Pride is an illusion which you can neither eat nor drink. Charity, however, is a gift to both the receiver and the giver."

That was just a little too much to take in at the moment. "Huh?"

Andakar laughed and put his hand on my shoulder, steering me away from the fountain. "Come on!"

I let him lead me along the streets of Kanda, heading further north. We elicited a few odd looks from passersby, this tall, broad-shouldered young aristocrat and this reedy, bloody, battered, bruised nobody. I felt severely out of place beside him, but he didn't seem to feel the same way about me. People greeted him with respect as they walked by. I was impressed.

We were walking along a row of shops, and Andakar slowed down. Among the people walking toward us was a man who looked to be in his early twenties. He wore glasses and had a bunch of books under one arm.

"Mattas!" Andakar called to him.

The other man grinned as they stopped in the street. "Hey, little brother!" He glanced at me. "Who's your friend?"

"This is Dejan," Andakar replied. "I'm taking him to the temple physician."

Whoa. I didn't realize that.

Mattas looked at me questioningly, but I didn't quite feel like telling everybody in Ishval my life story.

"He's had a little misfortune," Andakar said simply.

Mattas just nodded, accepting the explanation without much effort. "Well, I hope fortune is a little kinder to you, Dejan."

"Uh…thanks."

"Look what I managed to find!" Mattas pulled out one of his books and handed it to Andakar. "A Xingese lexicon!"

Andakar opened up the book and turned a few pages. I couldn't read Ishvalan or Amestrian, let alone Xingese. "Challenging," Andakar remarked, handing the book back.

"My kind of challenge," Mattas said, tucking it back under his arm. "Mother was wondering when you'd be by."

Andakar shrugged. "I don't know for certain. It depends on what tasks are set for me. I answer to _Saahad_ Bozidar and he answers to _Saahad_ Logue."

"In other words, the priests have you novices doing all their donkey work," Mattas remarked with an impish half grin.

"It's part of the learning process," Andakar replied calmly.

"Right. Well, I won't keep you. You probably want to get your friend patched up before he bleeds to death."

I didn't think that was likely, but it was decent of him to remember that I was standing there.

Mattas grabbed his brother in a quick hug. "Seriously. Don't be a stranger."

"I won't, Brother," Andakar assured him.

They parted and we continued on our way. "Do you have any siblings?" Andakar asked me.

"No," I said. Katri didn't count, and I didn't want to go into an explanation right now. My face was starting to stiffen up.

Andakar seemed to sense my discomfort. "We're nearly there," he said.

True to his word, in a few more minutes we stopped at the gate of a small domed temple. This wasn't the Great Temple that stood in the middle of Ishval. That would have been a hell of a long walk. This was a lesser temple that served this area, Andakar explained to me as we walked along a colonnade. Lesser it might be; I was certainly impressed.

Andakar stopped at an open door and knocked on the doorframe. "_Saahad_ Uvar? May I enter?"

"Yes, yes. Come in!"

Andakar motioned me inside, and we stepped into a room lined with shelves crammed from floor to ceiling with books and jars and bottles. Despite this, it was tidy and clean and I felt embarrassed being there, grubby as I was. There was a low table in the middle of the room and at this sat an older man with glasses perched on the end of his nose. There was a fat book opened on the table in front of him, and he looked up from it as we entered. He smiled.

"Young Andakar! It's a pleasure to see you!"

"The pleasure is mine, _Saahad._" Andakar knelt down and brought the old man's hand to his forehead. "May I ask a favor of you?"

The old man peered over his glasses at me where I hung back by the door. "Hmm. Yes." He pushed himself to his feet and beckoned to me. "Come here, my boy."

I moved closer to him, and he stood in front of me. He gazed critically at my face for a moment, then took my chin and turned my head to frown at the gash on my cheek. "Been brawling, have you?"

"No…_Saahad_," I replied. "Not exactly."

"Well, someone did this to you. These wounds were not self-inflicted." The old man frowned and spoke in a quiet, grave voice. "The soldiers had no hand in this?"

Not directly. "No, _Saahad_." I glanced at Andakar, who remained silent, for which I was grateful.

"Hmm. Well, if you are unwilling to tell me, I suppose it is of no consequence." He took another look at my cheek. "Hmm. Yes. That will need a few stitches. But first we'll need to clean it out properly." He pointed to a tall stool over by a window. "Sit down there."

I sat down, my stomach starting to turn the moment he said _stitches_. Master Uvar went over to his shelves and gathered up a number of things from them, handing some of them to Andakar. Then they came over to me.

Uvar set a wad of white cloth, a little ceramic dish, and a little leather case down on a nearby table. He went off to wash his hands in a big bowl on a stand in the corner, then came back and opened the leather case. He took out a spool of thread and a needle. I swallowed. He clipped off a length of thread, poked it through the eye of the needle, then laid it into the little bowl. He took a large bottle of clear liquid that Andakar was holding and poured some of it into the bowl.

"Hold that basin under his chin," Uvar said quietly to Andakar, who tucked the edge of a metal basin under my jaw. He tilted my head a little to one side and said, "This might sting."

I jumped about a foot off the stool as he poured the liquid from the bottle over my cheek. The _aw, fuck_ that I shrieked rang through the temple precincts.

Uvar just tutted at me with mild disapproval. "Don't be such a baby."

This went on for a lot longer than I felt it needed to, the searing, burning liquid sluicing through my wound and dripping into the basin, mixed with my blood. Then Uvar set the bottle down and picked up the needle and thread. He turned back and regarded me sternly. "Now, you're going to have to stop squirming. I don't want to poke you in the eye."

I stared at the needle in his hand. "You know, I think I'm good—"

"Don't be ridiculous." Uvar leaned closer to me and I backed away, nearly falling off the stool. He straightened up with an annoyed look and turned to Andakar. "You'll have to hold him."

Without so much as a by-your-leave, Andakar set the basin on the floor and moved around behind me. He gripped my chin in one hand and clamped down on the top of my head with the other hand. And here I was thinking what a decent fellow he was.

Uvar leaned in again, "Just close your eyes," he suggested. He didn't have to tell me twice.

I felt a sharp stab on my cheek and I could feel the thread being pulled through my skin. Gritting my teeth and whimpering, I braced myself hard against Andakar as he held my head in an iron grip. After what seemed like an eternity of torment, Uvar finally clipped off the last bit of thread and stepped back. He sloshed a little more of the liquid over my cheek, but by this time I figured the worst of it was over. I cracked open one eye to see him frowning appraisingly at his handiwork.

"Hmm…" he mused, apparently satisfied. Then he picked up a small square of a mirror and handed it to me. "What do you think?"

I'm not sure he really wanted me to tell him that at the moment, but I took a look at myself. It was a little startling at first, but I had to admit, it was neatly done.

"You'll be left with a small scar," Uvar said. "But perhaps it will serve as a lesson to you."

"Yeah, to keep my mouth shut, I guess," I muttered to myself.

Uvar raised an eyebrow. "The bruising will fade eventually." He said. He clasped his hands behind his back and regarded me thoughtfully. "Are you sure there isn't something you'd like to tell me? Something that's troubling you?" I hesitated, and he added, "Where are your parents? Do they know you're here?"

I didn't think I had shown that much of a reaction, but maybe Uvar was a lot more attentive to the pain in people's faces than I thought he was. He frowned slightly and looked over my head at Andakar where he stood behind me, but he apparently got little to no response. He shrugged and went over to the table to gather up his stuff.

"Come back in about two weeks so I can remove those stitches," he said. "In the meantime, keep that wound clean. And try to avoid any further damage to yourself."

I was all for that, but it might be something of an effort. But now something else was troubling me. "_Saahad,_ I probably should have told you up front, but I…uh…can't pay you. Not yet, anyway." I was already in hock to Vashto.

Uvar looked at me with some surprise. "I was under the impression that Andakar brought you as an act of charity. Is this not the case?" He gave Andakar a questioning glance.

"Yes, _Saahad_," he replied.

I sighed. "I can't do that," I said. "Call it pride if you want, but I can't accept your charity. I can't do it right away, but I'll pay you back."

Uvar nodded slowly. He took off his glasses and polished them with the edge of his tunic. "Very well, young man, if you insist." He put his glasses on and smiled. "Andakar will have to accumulate his works of mercy elsewhere."

* * *

><p>My cut still throbbed, but it was already starting to dull. I was kind of tempted to touch it, I was so impressed with Uvar's needlework. But he'd warned me about getting it dirty, and it was probably the cleanest part of my body.<p>

"You really don't have to pay the temple," Andakar said. I wasn't sure if he was disappointed. Maybe he just didn't get it.

"You don't know my dad," I replied. "He refuses to be beholden to anybody, and he doesn't trust anyone offering charity. We're not beggars," I added. I had my pride, too.

"I never said you were." Andakar considered me. "Will your father be angry with you for this?"

"You mean, will he split my face open again?" I shrugged. "Depends on what kind of mood he's in when I get back."

Andakar made a slight nod. "Then I'm going with you."

I froze. "Oh, _shit_, no, Andakar! That'd be a real bad idea!"

"Why?"

"Because my dad, he doesn't…he doesn't like people like you! He doesn't like priests, he doesn't like the quality—"

"Quality?" Andakar gave a smirk.

"Well, look at you!" I gestured to the fine fabric of his clothing. "Then look at me."

"Quality comes from within." Andakar spread his arms. "A man can dress as immaculately as he likes. He can dress in spotless white, but his soul can be a black pit." He held me in a frank gaze. "When I look at you, I see quality."

Well, that took me a minute. "Uh…that's…that's a really grand thing to say," I murmured.

"And no one's ever said that to you before, have they?"

I gave a self-conscious shrug. "Not exactly."

"Your father needs to see it in you, too," Andakar said. He started moving, beckoning me with a jerk of his head. "Come on. Show me where you live."

Oh, dear God, I thought. This would not end well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It didn't occur to me to be embarrassed by my house until we actually got there. I had never been inside any buildings in Ishval Proper before, so I was really struck by the contrast. Up until now, I thought our place was pretty nice, but that was compared to the sagging lean-tos and shanties that the others of our profession called home.

I turned to Andakar and shrugged apologetically. "It's not much," I said, as though he needed me to tell him that. "But it's home." I gave a weak laugh. "You should have seen it before my dad fixed it up!"

"It looks very comfortable," Andakar replied. I expected him to sound condescending, but he didn't. "Even the finest house is simply an empty shell if it has no heart."

That sounded like something somebody taught him to say, but I supposed he was right. Our little shack had a whole lot of heart when my mom was still alive. Now I wasn't sure if it all might have gone with her.

I heard the sloshing of water and I went around behind the house, and Andakar went right along with me. Katri was squatting in front of a beat up tin tub, her arms submerged in weakly sudsy water. She stood up, pulling a dripping shirt out of the water, and she spun it around, letting it twist around itself. Then she grabbed the ends and wrung it hard, like she was trying to get back at it for something. She suddenly looked up and froze, staring at me. A look of concern may or may not have crossed her face, but she quickly switched to an angry scowl.

"Well, you're a sight," she muttered. "Serves you right, anyhow."

"Yeah. Thanks."

She jerked her chin at Andakar, glaring at him. "Who's your fancy friend?" she demanded.

I looked over my shoulder at Andakar, who seemed to be sizing up Katri for the unkempt little ragamuffin that she was. I could tell they were going to get along famously.

"This is Andakar Ruhad," I told Katri with a sense of futility. "He helped me out when I went into town."

"And you brought him back here?" Katri asked incredulously. "Shua's gonna kick your ass all over again."

"Is he here?"

"No, lucky for you." She flung the wet shirt, still mostly twisted, over the sagging clothesline that stretched from a tree to a corner of the house. No wonder all our clothes looked like crap. "But you better clear your friend outta here before he gets back."

I didn't really need to be reminded. I turned to Andakar. "Well, I'm home now, and I don't want to keep you. I know you must have a lot of…um…priest stuff you have to learn, so…um…"

He just stood there, either not getting the hint or ignoring it. He watched Katri for a minute, not like other men watched her, but sort of curious. Then he turned back to me.

"Do you have any other family?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No. My mom died about half a year ago."

He nodded. "I see," he murmured, as though a whole bunch of things suddenly made sense to him, which wouldn't be a surprise. He probably had a good idea that if Mom had been there, none of this would have happened. "I'm sorry for your loss, but there is comfort in knowing that she rests in the bosom of Ishvala."

I gave a shrug and looked away. I sure liked to think that, but that's all I did. I wouldn't dare say anything like that around my dad. Dad didn't like talking about Mom, and he didn't like other people talking about her, either. It was almost as if he was jealous. He wasn't like that when Mom was alive. He knew everybody around here loved her, but he didn't worry about it because he knew she was his. Then Ishvala took her away.

Other than learning whatever my dad taught me about music, I never had what you'd call an education. I didn't trot off to school every day with my little satchel of books and until today I had barely even gotten close to a temple. But even without that, I knew that there was something wrong about the bitterness that my dad was letting himself get eaten up by. One thing I knew for certain, Shua the _vatrish_ was not on speaking terms with God.

This meant, of course, that any of Ishvala's priests, fully-fledged or not, were not welcome anywhere near Shua's little plot of land, or within his sight, for that matter.

"I'm grateful for everything you've done, really," I said to Andakar. "And I don't mean to be disrespectful, but you'd be doing me an even bigger favor if you left as soon as possible. It'd really be better for everybody if my dad didn't see you."

"He doesn't frighten me," Andakar replied. He said it in a calm way, not boasting, just stating a fact.

Katri let out a snort of contempt as she slapped a pair of pants over the clothesline. "You haven't met him."

"Andakar, please!" I spread my hands. "I have to live here!"

Andakar looked at me for a moment, frowning a little. "Will you be all right?"

"I'll be a hell of a lot better if you're gone, trust me!" I assured him.

He hesitated. If I wasn't getting so damn scared, I would have been really touched by his concern. I could appreciate it later. Now wasn't the time. "Please, go!" I begged.

"All right," Andakar replied finally. He started heading back from where we came, but Dad would probably be coming from the same direction. I grabbed his arm and spun him the other way, which wasn't easy. He was pretty solid.

"Go that way," I said, pointing off toward the west. "I know it's the long way around, but you won't run into him."

Andakar gave a sort of sigh and walked away. He looked over his shoulder. "I'll be back some time to check on you."

I waved my hands. "No, that's all right!" I said quickly. "I'll probably be in town playing somewhere. I have to earn some money. You can find me there if you like."

Andakar gave a nod, but the look on his face as he turned away gave me the sinking feeling that he would do whatever he felt like doing. That was the problem with the quality. They just didn't take poor people seriously.

I was so relieved that he was long gone by the time Dad finally slouched home. But my relief didn't last too long. I still had to explain how I got my face stitched up. I was in the front room, looking through the box where we kept the little bit of food we had, which today wasn't much. There was the flatbread from yesterday, which was now hard as a rock, a couple of oranges, some dried apricots, and some tea. I stared at it for a few minutes, wondering if it I ought to go back into town and find a place where I could sit and play. Maybe the soldiers would take pity on a poor, beat-up kid and toss me a few coins.

I turned to pick up my lute from where it hung on a nail near my bed. Then I heard the scuff of a foot outside the door and I froze. The curtain was pushed aside and I turned my face away, concentrating on tuning my lute. I heard my dad step inside and I kept my back to him, plucking out a simple tune.

"That middle string's off," he muttered as he passed behind me.

I just nodded and gave the peg a hint of a turn. He sounded tired and I was hoping that he was just going to head off to bed. But then his steps halted. I felt his hand on my shoulder as he gave me a push to make me face him. He scowled at me for a second, in a sort of vague, critical way, as if pondering his handiwork. Then his frown deepened when he got a look at my stitches. My heart started to pound as he pulled me closer to the window to get a better look in the light. He grabbed my jaw and turned my head, a lot less gently than _Saahad_ Uvar did, I can promise you.

I tensed, and not just from the pain. I expected him to demand how those stitches had gotten there, who had put them there, how I had paid for such a service, and how stupid could I possibly be. I was already trying to come up with a plausible explanation, something that wasn't quite a lie but not entirely the truth. I was also expecting him to hit me again, which was getting in the way of trying to come up with my story. The best I could do was to squeeze my eyes shut and just take it.

Then he let go of my face and I slowly opened my eyes. I found him just looking at me. He suddenly looked so tired and worn. And for a moment, he also had a look on his face that I hadn't seen there in…well…not for a while. It was sorrow.

I was kind of shocked and a little scared. It didn't matter so much to me that he might feel sorry for what he had done. That might have been part of it. But for that moment, he looked like he had given up, like his life had become so empty and so futureless that there was no point in it anymore. He couldn't be that way. He was still my dad and I still needed him to be there, as hopelessly flawed as he was.

Maybe he saw that in my expression, but the moment passed and his features toughened. He gave me and my stitches one last contemptuous glance and turned away, heading toward his room, but not without sparing me a parting smack on the back of my head. There wasn't any rancor in it. He was just putting things back into balance, such as it was.

"Go down the road to the old _baata_," he called wearily from his room. "She said she'd give you an egg if you fetched some water for her."

I gave a little start. An egg? Sweet Ishvala, I'd kiss that twitchy old crone's bunions for an egg! If I actually kissed her bunions, maybe she'd give me two! I quickly hung my lute back on the wall and hurried out the door, feeling a whole lot better. They were fleeting, but I'd take these little moments when I could get them.

I jogged along what we referred to as a road. It was more of a footpath that ran through the desert scrub. During the rainy season it became a creek, but only briefly. In a bit of a clearing was the house of our local fortune teller. She was older than dirt, but she was still sharp as a cactus spine. She read tea leaves for people, which was not all that uncommon. But she had gained a name for herself for being pretty much right all the time. Even the soldiers came to her. But it was a bit of a gamble. All she'd really tell you was a single word. She told one fellow that she saw paper in his future, and he ended up inheriting a lot of money. She told another soldier the same thing, but he got a letter from his girlfriend saying she was marrying somebody else. Those of us who lived around here already knew our futures were bleak, so we didn't bother.

With the money she'd made with her fortune telling, she'd bought some chickens, and now she sold eggs, so between the two she actually had a bit of steady income. Her house was a lot like ours, except she actually had a door, which I knocked on.

"_Baata _Nifaa!" I called. "It's me, Dejan! My dad said you needed some water."

I heard some dry mumbling from inside, then the old woman called back, "Well, come on in, boy! If I could fetch the water myself, I could open the door. I'm a bit poorly today."

I pushed the door open and found the old woman sitting up on her bed in the corner. It wasn't cold, but she had several layers of ragged blankets around her. Maybe she did it to make herself look bigger because she was such a skinny old stick. She regarded me with her one good eye. The left one had gone a sort of milky color.

"Pissed him off proper, did you?" she asked.

She didn't have to be blessed with second sight to figure that one out. I nodded ruefully. She leaned forward a little and a somewhat shaky hand appeared from the blankets. A bony finger beckoned me closer. I stepped up to the side of the bed and leaned down so she could considered my face. The wrinkles around her mouth creased in a smile that hinted at how few teeth she had left.

"Looks like temple needlework," she said with an approving nod. "Very neat."

I gave a little start and grinned, which was easier to do now that my face wasn't so stiff. "Now how do you know that, _baata_?"

She cackled softly. "Just a guess, really. You wouldn't be able to afford an Amestrian doctor." She narrowed her eyes and tapped her chin. "Did one of them do that sort of work for the price of a song or did somebody else take pity on you? Not your old man, I bet."

I sighed. "Right again, _baata_. I guess I made a new friend," I told her. "He's studying for the priesthood, and he'll be pretty good at it, as far as I can tell."

"Lucky you. And who might this bright spark be?"

"His name's Andakar Ruhad, and he-"

"_Eh-h!" _the old woman whooped. "Ruhad? Son of Kanda's chieftain?"

I stared at her. I wasn't really up on who was who in Ishval Proper. When I went into town, I just played music and minded my own business. Nifaa seemed to catch news on the wind. "Are you serious? He never said anything about that." It was almost scary to think about how wide the gap between me and Andakar really was.

"No, he wouldn't. Priests are taught to be humble and minister to the poor and such." Her mouth thinned in a smile. "Sometimes they even do that, but you don't see them around here too often."

"Andakar came back here with me," I said, then I added, "but I had to send him off pretty quick before Dad got home."

Nifaa gave a short wheezy chuckle. "Very wise. But it sounds like your friend is taking his calling to heart."

I shrugged. "I guess he is. He said he was going to come back and check on me, but I hope he doesn't. It was mighty decent of him to help me out, but I don't need that kind of grief right now." I gave her a conspiratorial look. "You won't tell my dad, will you?"

_Baata _Nifaa waved her hand. "He doesn't come to me to read his leaves. He doesn't want to know."

I gave a short, not-very-funny laugh. "Because he has no future?"

The old woman lifted her narrow shoulders. "I didn't say that. But you said you'd fetch me some water, didn't you?"

"That I did, _baata_!" I replied readily. "And Dad said you'd give me an egg if I did."

"We'll see, we'll see," she clucked. "I may have you do this or that for me while you're here." She waved a hand toward a tin bucket by the door. "But get me some water first. Then we can put the kettle on."

I took the bucket down to the well that stood not too far from her house. A couple of the _falshaii_ were standing there and they clicked their tongues at the sight of my bruises.

"Dear oh dear!" one of them sighed. "That's what you get for trying to be a hero, Dejan."

"You're gonna start looking old before your time," the other remarked.

"Yeah, like us!" the first one added, and they both laughed raucously. Neither of them were what you'd call pretty, but those rooms at the back of Vashto's were dark.

When I had filled up Nifaa's water barrel, she had me fill up her kettle and set it on her little brazier, feed her chickens, give them water, and pick a few vegetables from her garden. When I got back inside, she had me heat up her pot with the now boiling water, then hand the pot to her while she spooned her precious leaves into it. I filled it again and set it on a small low table by the bed. Nifaa sat back and watched me thoughtfully while I pulled up a short stool.

"You're a good lad, Dejan," she said.

"Thanks, _baata_."

"Your dad thinks so, too, but he doesn't say so."

He had certainly never said it to me. I just shrugged. The old woman sighed a long sigh. "It's a hard life here," she proclaimed. "Trying to raise a family and keep it together is a luxury. Your folks started a bit too young to realize that."

"I don't think they meant to," I said. "I just sort of happened."

"Well, that's as may be," Nifaa conceded. "I think you ended up with a wiser head on your shoulders than a lot of people give you credit for." With an effort, she scooted herself closer to the teapot. I reached over to pour for her, but she waved me away. She picked up the pot with hands that shook a little, and she slowly poured the tea herself into two small cups, mumbling to herself. I started to get a little nervous. She wasn't just offering me a cup of tea. She was going to read my leaves. All I wanted was a couple of eggs. She nodded to one of the cups. "Drink up, boy."

I gave a sigh and sipped at the cup, taking my time. But they weren't big cups, so it didn't really take long. I drank it down, keeping the leaves from slipping into my mouth. Nifaa pointed her finger down and twirled it. "Swill the cup around."

I did as she told me while she mumbled to herself in a singsong sort of way. I didn't know what she was saying. She could have been reciting a prayer or her shopping list, for all I knew. Then she held out her hand. I set the cup into her palm and she peered down into it. The more I thought about it, the less I wanted to know what she saw, but it was too late now.

"Tears," she said quietly. "I see tears in your future, my lad."

Well, that wasn't good. "Whose tears, _baata_?" I asked with a sinking feeling.

She set the cup down. "It doesn't tell me that much. They could be tears of joy for all I know." She said that to be nice. There wasn't much joy around here. I must have looked pretty bleak because she went on. "You know, I couldn't always tell the leaves. It wasn't until I lost the sight in this eye that I gained my gift." She tapped her left temple and gave me a knowing smile. "So you see, young Dejan, when Ishvala takes with one hand, He very often gives back with the other." She chuckled to herself and nodded toward a beat up wooden chest across the little room. "Go ahead and take a couple of eggs out of there, dearie. Take three if you can carry them."


	4. Chapter 4

**This is a shift to young Scar's pov...**

**Chapter 4**

It was late afternoon, but as I crossed the temple grounds, I was still preoccupied with my encounter that morning with Dejan. I hold no illusions about life because I come from a privileged family, but the conditions in which that young _vatrish _was forced to live were sobering. It wasn't so much the pitiful hovel or the unwholesome area he lived in, but the wretched treatment he had received from his_ father_. Although he had been known to act out of anger, my own father was generally an affable and even-tempered man, and he certainly never struck either my brother or me. I could barely imagine Dejan's despair.

Deep in my own thoughts, I nearly missed the slight shift in the air pressure just to my right as the side of a rigidly held hand nearly connected with my chin. I jerked my head back awkwardly but then quickly took my stance and blocked the elbow that followed the first attack. A foot flew past my face and I raised myself off my heels to maintain my balance as I leaned back. It was elementary stuff, but my attacker was not trying to cause me any injury. He grinned at me as I straightened up.

"Get your head out of the clouds, Andakar!"

I grinned back a little shamefacedly at the young priest standing before me. Imir was a few years my senior and had completed his novitiate only the year before. He was a serious priest but a genial man, well-liked by all of us at the Kanda temple for his wry humor. He and I were both younger brothers to accomplished men, each in their own way, whom we greatly admired. His brother was a master blacksmith and mine was a scholar.

I bowed my head. "Your pardon, _Saahad._ I was distracted."

Imir clicked his tongue with mock severity. "Thinking wayward thoughts, are we?"

"No, no," I assured him. "I'm just…troubled, I suppose. I met a young _vatrish_ this morning and his story isn't a happy one."

"Ah!" Imir nodded. "I heard about the patient you brought in to Uvar."

"You should have seen him!" I said as we continued across the grounds together. "I found him sitting under a fountain in South Kanda, crying like a child, his face all battered and bruised. And he told me his _father_ had done it to him! When I took him home, which could hardly be called a home, he was almost terrified that his father should find me there." I blew out an exasperated breath. "It makes me angry all over again, but I don't know what I can do about it."

"The boy has no mother?" Imir asked.

I shook my head. "She died about half a year ago, he told me."

Imir put on a thoughtful expression. "Half a year ago? I wonder if the father is the same fellow who came to us around that time. I think it was while _Saahad_ Ahirom was visiting from the Great Temple. Yes, I know," Imir added with a wry smile at the slight grimace I couldn't help making. "Everybody's favorite."

_Saahad _Ahirom was not popular, but he was second only to _Saahad_ Logue, the spiritual leader of all Ishvalans. _Saahad _Logue was a great yet humble and holy man; Ahirom was simply preoccupied with his own greatness.

"The man's wife—or the woman he lived with, I suppose—was dying," Imir went on. "The man was in desperate straits and was seeking our help as a last resort. Ahirom took it upon himself to go with the man to his house—setting an example for all you poor novices," he added with a deeply pious look on his face that fooled no one. "He found the poor woman wasting away in what was probably an advanced stage of cancer and there was nothing he could do. It's possible there never was anything to be done, apart from major surgery, and we're not equipped or trained for that. Even if there had been a chance, we didn't have the resources to pay an Amestrian doctor. In the end, Ahirom could only offer the man pain medication and prayer. He may have offered sympathy, but knowing Ahirom, I rather doubt it. The man took the drugs, but told Ahirom rather ungraciously that he could keep his prayers." Imir gave a grim smirk. "As you could probably imagine, neither of them took the encounter well."

"I remember when _Saahad _Ahirom was here, but I don't recall the incident," I admitted. "I was in the middle of examinations."

"Yes, you certainly had your head in your books," Imir remarked. "Just like your brother." I took that as a compliment. "Anyway," he continued, "that was the last we heard of the _vatrish_."

"Until the woman's burial, I suppose," I added.

"No, not even then," Imir replied. "As far as I know, no one went out there."

I looked at him, startled. "No?"

Imir shugged. "Considering the man's feelings toward us, I'm not surprised."

"But did he…did he bury her himself?" I asked. "With no one to say the prayers?"

Imir considered me with a look of resignation. "It was clear the man wanted nothing to do with us. Whatever his feelings toward his creator are, only he and Ishvala know that. On top of that, Ahirom made it clear that the man was not deserving of our charity."

I was shocked. "But that isn't his decision!"

"Of course it isn't! But few of us can get past Ahirom to speak to _Saahad _Logue directly, particularly over a _vatrish_." Imir lifted his broad shoulders at the look of incredulity on my face. "I know, I know. Even the least of God's people is worthy."

"Then all the more reason to minister to them!" I argued.

Imir clapped me soundly on the back. "Then let that be your mission, Andakar my son! And Ishvala's benisons be with you!"

I stared at him for a moment. He was being facetious, but even as he spoke I could feel the idea taking root and growing. Imir could see the workings of my mind in my face. "Oh, Ishvala!" he sighed. "What have I started?" He gave me a shrewd look. "Take it up with _Saahad _Bozidar," he said. "I don't know how good a fit this will be, but I think you have the temperment for it." He grinned. "Or plain cussedness."

…**..**

The stillness of my master's thought was so profound that I was tempted to think he hadn't heard me. I knew otherwise, of course, and I forced myself to wait patiently. Of all my teachers, he was the dearest to me, like a second father, and I was anxious for his approval. We of the Kanda temple felt that Bozidar should have been appointed to serve beside _Saahad_ Logue rather than Ahirom, but then we would have lost him to the Great Temple in Gunja, the heart of Ishval. Well, Gunja's loss was our gain.

Finally he turned a thoughtful but penetrating look to me. "This is an ambitious endeavor to take on yourself," he remarked. "Do you feel you're truly prepared for such a challenge?"

I was about to reply very firmly that I was, but _Saahad _Bozidar had taught me more than once not only to avoid pride but to be wary of overconfidence. "I honestly can't say how prepared I am, _Saahad,_" I said carefully. "This is a different world from what I'm accustomed to. I know I'll make mistakes, but how better to learn?"

A smile stole across my master's face and, encouraged, I went on. "But those people are in desperate need! They shouldn't feel as though they've been forsaken!"

Bozidar nodded slowly. "Are you sure they feel forsaken? Are you sure they don't live apart from the rest of Ishval out of choice? Free to live as they please?"

That idea hadn't occurred to me. "Then is it us they've forsaken?"

"An interesting question, isn't it? Who turned their backs first? Was it the _vatrishi _and the _falshaii_? We gave them those names. Dust and Despair," Bozidar said with a sorrowful thoughtfulness. "They have no one else but each other, but they may prefer it that way."

"But that isn't right!" I argued. "As Ishvalans, we should not be fragmented like that, not in these times!"

Bozidar raised a warning finger. "Ah, now you're getting into politics, my son. If you want to talk about shared humanity, do we not have such a bond with the Amestrians?"

I scowled. "Barely."

My master sighed. "Andakar, you have a heart bursting with compassion, but there are times that I fear your head is like a hive of bees."

I lowered my gaze, chastened.

"But," he went on kindly, "your heart tends to win out because that is where you hear Ishvala more clearly." He turned to me and placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "Your foremost wish is to help your friend, is it not?"

I nodded. "It is, _Saahad_."

"Then start there. Keep it simple. Don't try to take on too much at once," my master instructed. "Act as the situation warrants. And keep me apprised of how things are going. If you need my help, let me know." He regarded me warmly. "But I think the wisdom will come to you."

I bowed my head. "I'm grateful, _Saahad,_" I said. I smiled at him. "My heart is lighter already. I simply couldn't turn my back on Dejan."

"No, indeed," my master agreed.

"I don't want him to fall into despair because of his father's wickedness." I shook my head, still appalled at Dejan's treatment. "It truly has made me appreciate my own family that much more," I added.

"And how are your worthy parents?" Bozidar asked. "And your brother?"

"I saw my brother in the marketplace this morning," I replied. "He said my mother asked after me, so I assume she and my father are well."

Bozidar looked at me with mild surprise. "Don't assume, my son! You should go see them. Your diligence in your studies does you credit, but you should never neglect your parents."

I felt somewhat torn. "But it's been my duty this week to sit by _Saahad _Adai in the evenings. He could leave us any time."

Bozidar waved his hand. "Our beloved Adai is going slowly but gently to Ishvala's bosom. It's unlikely that he is concerned with or even knows who is sitting beside him. If I can't find someone to take your place, I'll do so myself. After all, Adai was my master." He smiled and gave the merest hint of a wink, as though addressing me as still a schoolboy. "You run along."

We turned away from each other, he back toward the temple and I toward the outer gate.

"Oh, Andakar," my master called me one more time. I had barely put my hand to the gate, and I paused and turned.

Bozidar stood on the walkway, his arms folded, a slight, contemplative frown on his face, his posture for conveying something that he wanted his students to consider with grave care. "I do not think it is wickedness that drives Dejan's father to treat his son the way he does. Perhaps you will find out what it really is."

…..

I didn't really think about the time, but when I reached my parents' house in North Kanda, it was close to suppertime. My unexpected arrival sent my mother into a flustered state of frantic activity, which made me feel a little guilty. I said as much to Miri, one of the two servant girls, but she just laughed.

"You've made her whole day, _Zhaarad _Andakar!" Miri said. "She couldn't be happier!"

"That's right," my brother added, appearing in the doorway of my parents' sitting room. He gave the girl a wink and nodded toward me. "After all, her baby's come home. You won't see her making such a fuss over me."

"That's because you're always here, _Zhaarad_ Mattas," Miri retorted. She shook a finger at him. "You need to get your nose out of those books and start looking for a wife. _Then_ your mother will make a fuss over you."

Mattas spread his hands with mock helplessness. "Didn't I ask you to marry me last week?"

Miri rolled her eyes. "Oh, wouldn't your father love that! Besides, you know perfectly well I have a young man already, so take your blather somewhere else."

The other girl, Rashida, poked her head through the opposite door, the one that led to the kitchen. "Miri!" she hissed urgently. "The mistress needs you to see to the flatbread!"

"Coming," Miri replied in a weary sigh and sauntered toward the door, giving me a quick grin over her shoulder. Her expression suddenly sobered and she scurried out of the room. The girls were easy and familiar with my brother and me, but not in front of my father, who had just entered the room from the opposite door.

Turyan, current head of the house of Ruhad, had been chieftain of Kanda ever since I could remember and one of the leading adjudicators in all of Ishval since well before that. He enjoyed the esteem and respect of the entire community, something he would prefer to believe that he had earned by merit but which also came from the near reverence in which our family was held. Ishval had not been ruled by princes for a thousand years, and those in authority were elected by the populace. But Ishvalans held onto their history and lineages jealously. The house of Ruhad was one of the last remaining noble families, and my ancestress had been the bride of the last prince of Ishval.

As little importance as my father claimed to place on this, he cut a regal figure. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His clothes were well-made but simple, the only ornament being the three narrow bars of gold that he wore at his throat. Aside from a couple of ancient books that were kept in a closed cabinet, they were our family's only surviving heirloom of the princely age. The bars were engraved with prayers for the health, prosperity, and continuation of the house of Ruhad. So far, Ishvala had seen fit to grant us all three, although Mattas had yet to set my parents' minds at ease as far as establishing a new generation.

Father spread his arms and pulled me into a tight embrace. "Andakar!" he exclaimed warmly. "It does my heart good to see you!"

"It's good to be home," I replied. I stepped back. "You look well, Father."

"Your mother takes good care of me," he replied easily. He held me at arm's length searched my face. "And you? Temple life seems to agree with you."

"It's uncomplicated," I agreed.

"Ah!" Father gave a nod of weary frustration. "Well, I envy you, then! Life has become so much more complicated since we joined with Amestris!"

"Joined" was not the word I would have used and I would have said so. As much as I loved and respected my father, his opinions were not always mine. But he was faced with enough contention throughout his public work and he expected his home to be free of it.

Rashida appeared in the doorway with a prim little bow. "Supper is ready, _Zhaaradi_," she announced.

Father laid his arms across our shoulders. "Come, my sons! Let's see the feast your mother has prepared!"

At the temple, food was simple and adequate to nourish the body but was not a pleasure to be sought in its own right. What my mother had prepared, much of it on my account, was embarrassingly lavish. Once my father spoke the blessing, I tried not to indulge too shamelessly, but I really did miss her cooking. My mother beamed at me, nearly misty-eyed.

"Here, Andakar!" she urged, passing me a bowl of olives and a plate of warm flatbread. I already had a collection of dishes gathered in front of me. "They don't feed you enough! You look thin! Turyan! Don't you think he looks thin?"

Mattas made a show of squinting at me. "You're right, Mother! I can barely see him!"

"Oh, peace, boy!" Father chided him with a laugh. He gripped my shoulder. "He looks solid enough to me!"

My mother would never be convinced. "Well, I think he looks thin."

"Mattas is the thin one," Father said, dipping a piece of flatbread into a bowl of olive oil.

Mother just waved her hand in Brother's direction. "_Eh-h_! This one is like a rug! Always underfoot!" She gave him a pleading, frustrated look and Mattas tried very hard not to roll his eyes. He knew what was coming. "I was talking to Yagana today. Her daughter Najela is turning seventeen tomorrow. A very pretty girl."

"She is indeed!" Father said with a nod. "A good family, as well."

"She's gorgeous," Mattas agreed.

Father raised his hands in the air. "Ishvala be praised! There it is!"

I couldn't help but grin into my cup of watered wine. Mattas regarded our parents with patience. "There's more to a girl than looks and family, you know," he told them, not for the first time. "Yes, little Najela's gorgeous, but she's dumber than a bag of hammers."

Mother smacked his arm. "Mattas! What a thing to say!"

"Look, Father, Mother! Don't worry! When I find the right girl, I'll know," Mattas insisted. "But she's got to be somebody I can talk too. She's got to be more than just a well-turned vase, pretty on the outside and nothing on the inside."

"Ah, my firstborn!" Mother sighed tragically. "No one in Ishval is as brilliant as you! How will you ever find your equal?"

Mattas leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "If I didn't know you better, Mother, I'd say you were being sarcastic."

Mother gave him an affectionate look. "Oh, go on with you!"

"I promise, you'll both live to see grandchildren," Mattas assured them. "Just don't go arranging anything for me behind my back, all right?"

Father gave Mattas a subtly severe look. There was a bare moment of awkward silence before Mother spoke up in a light, brisk tone, telling of how the son of one of their neighbors had received an award from school for his excellent marks. Father took up the change of subject, praising the boy's diligence. The tension had disappeared, but my mother cast a warning glance at both Mattas and me that my father either didn't see or chose to ignore.

Mattas had come perilously close to touching on one very tender subject. My father was not an only child. He had a younger sister who, after the deaths of my grandparents, came under my father's care. As a strong believer in tradition, he felt it was his duty to seek out a suitable husband for Zoya. She had other ideas. She had met a poor but handsome young potter in the marketplace and would have no one but him. It truly shouldn't have mattered, but my father's one vanity was the provenance of his family name. Aside from being stung by his sister's defiance, he was embarrassed. In all other respects he was an equitable man, but in this he completely lost his temper. I was very young when this all happened, and it was the most angry I had ever seen my father, either before or since. He sundered all ties to her. He forbade anyone in our household to speak of her again. Even _Saahad_ Bozidar could not make him change his mind. Zoya, for her part, didn't care because she was happy.

After supper a colleague of my father's came to discuss some business with him, and they went out into the garden, calling for Mattas to join them to lend his expertise. Mattas was also studying law, being expected to follow in Father's footsteps. He studied many other things besides, such as natural science, mathematics, history, and foreign languages. His hunger for new knowledge was so insatiable that it couldn't be limited to the confines of law alone, nor was he challenged by its complexities. At times when Ishvalan law conflicted with Amestrian law, something that seemed to baffle heads that claimed to be older and wiser, Mattas would manage to either tease out a suitable compromise or find a loophole.

I joined Mother in the kitchen as she and the girls cleaned up after supper. I offered to help, but they all scoffed at me and made me sit at the table with a plate of honey pastry. My mother set a waxed paper parcel of the confection, a specialty of hers, and set it by my elbow.

"Take this to Zoya's, will you?" she said softly. My father couldn't hear us, but she was still cautious. "Oh, and here's some flatbread, too. Mind you drop it off tonight before you return to the temple. I don't want it getting stale."

Zoya's cooking was just as good as my mother's, but she appreciated this consideration. Mother, Mattas, and I had not abandoned her as my father had, but we were forced to go behind his back, something that felt wrong and right at the same time. But my father was no fool. He might even already know what we were up to. For one thing, gossip was one of those minor sins that Ishvalans never seemed to be able to resist. If he had an idea, he showed no indication. I would like to think that we had his unspoken approval, but he would never say so.

"I will, Mother," I told her. As an afterthought, I added, "Could you wrap a few more pieces of honey pastry?"

Mother chuckled. "Of course, my love! Are you sure your fellow novices won't get jealous?"

"They're not for me," I replied. "They're for a young man I met today. He has a hard life, and I doubt he's ever had a treat like this."

Mother nodded readily. "Well, then I'll make up a parcel for him."

"I was going to mention him at supper, but…well…it didn't seem like the right time," I said, recalling the tense moment we had earlier. "He's a _vatrish_, you see."

Mother sat across from me and sighed softly. "The hopelessly poor are almost more elevated in your father's eyes than someone who was getting by well enough but who set his sights above his level in life."

"There are no _levels_!" I said with quiet frustration. "We are all the same in the eyes of God!"

My mother reached out and took my hand in both of hers. "Oh, my dearest boy! You are so good! And of course you're right! In all other ways, your father is a dear man, but you know how he is."

I nodded. There was no remedy, but we made up for it as well as we could. It made my resolve to help Dejan that much stronger.


	5. Chapter 5

**While I'm stuck on my other work, I thought I'd get back to this one.**

**Chapter 5**

It was early yet. There wasn't much point going into Ishval Proper too soon. It was better to wait at least until folks started taking their midday breaks, relaxing a bit over their lunches and maybe feeling a little more inclined to toss a few coins my way. Until then, I thought I'd take up my lute and give Mom a visit.

Dad didn't seem like he was too sore at me when he left for Vashto's last night (he thought it better if I didn't show my face there for a while, what with one thing and another). We'd had a pretty good dinner with the eggs I brought home, and life didn't seem quite as wretched as it had been.

So why was I sitting here, tempting fate? Like I said, my dad was funny about Mom's memory, and he didn't even like me or Katri going near her grave. He had yet to say why, but I expect he never would. I knew better than to ask. But she was my mother and I figured I had a right. I had made up a new tune I wanted her to hear. I really wanted to believe that she was resting all nice and cozy in Ishvala's bosom, like folks were supposed to when they died, and she'd be listening. I was betting on my dad not even stirring out of bed for a while, so figured I had a bit of time.

I sang and I played as softly as I could.

_The sun shines on a bird's wing  
>The moon glows and the crickets sing<br>All my heart to you I bring-_

A twig snapped somewhere behind me and I froze. I almost didn't want to, but I turned to look over my shoulder. At first I was relieved, because it wasn't my dad. Then I got worried all over again.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded.

I didn't mean for it to come out so rude, but Andakar took it well. He just gave a shrug. "I said I'd come back, didn't I? I have something for you."

He came and sat on the ground right next to me, easy as you please. He reached into the folds of his _chuva_ and pulled out a square packet of something or other. He held it out to me.

"My mother made these," he said.

I hesitated, partly because I was so surprised. People never just _gave_ me things. Nice things, anyway.

"Go ahead," Andakar urged.

I took the package. It was pretty clever, the way the paper was folded. It was sort of tucked into itself so it wouldn't come apart unless you tugged on it. I pulled the edges open and I sat staring at what was inside. _Honey pastry_. The last time I had one of these was when I was little, back before my mom got sick. She bought me one during a rare trip into Ishval Proper. It was the most amazing thing I'd ever had. She only barely had enough money for one piece, and here I had four in my hand that somebody just _gave _me.

"God _damn_!" I said, then I gave a quick, guilty grimace to Andakar. "Sorry! I mean, _thanks_!"

Andakar gave a nod. "You're welcome." He studied my face critically for a moment. "You don't look as though you have any new bruises."

I shook my head. "No, I don't. Things actually turned out all right, mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Well…" I shrugged. I still had old _baata_ Nifaa's tea leaf reading buzzing around my head like a mosquito. Every time I tried to bat it away, it would come back. I didn't know how much Andakar held to that sort of thing, being an almost priest, so I thought it best not to mention it. "I mean, a huge bag of gold didn't drop out of the sky right in front of our house, but neither did a giant rock land on top of it, so I guess we broke even."

Andakar gave a quiet laugh and nodded. "I suppose you can't say fairer than that." He gestured to the honey pastries. "Well, go ahead."

It wasn't like I'd forgotten, but I wanted to savor it. I didn't know when I'd ever get another. I pulled one of the pieces away from the others, the honey stretching in tiny strings between them, like its fellows didn't want to see this one go. Too bad. I bit into it and I closed my eyes while I chewed.

It was better than the one I had as a kid, and that was a memory I had always cherished. The layers of paper thin pastry resisted just enough to be coy, but they finally gave in to my teeth, giving up the sweet, gooey filling of nuts and honey. After getting as much enjoyment out of that one bite as I possibly could, I finally swallowed. I missed it already.

"Sweet Ishvala, that was heaven!" I sighed.

With Andakar sitting there, I wasn't sure if that was all right to say, but then he said, "I like to think that there's something divine about my mother's cooking."

I wasn't about to argue with him about that. This fellow certainly had remarkable parents. "I found out something about you."

"Oh? What's that?"

"You're the son of the chieftain of Kanda!"

Andakar just smiled a little. "Yes, I knew that."

"Why didn't you tell me yourself? That's a pretty grand thing."

"I don't want to be grand," Andakar replied. "It matters to some people, but not to me. As vast as Ishvala's bosom is, there's no room for riches or titles or grandness. We are all equally humble in the eyes of God."

"Well, that's a mercy," I remarked. "Humble is about all I've got."

I wanted to save some of the honey pastry to share with Dad and Katri, but Dad would want to know where I got it from. I figured I'd save at least one piece for Katri on the condition that she kept her mouth shut about it. Her loyalty to Dad was stronger than her loyalty to me, but this was honey pastry! Anyway, that left the other two pieces for me.

As I carefully pulled my second piece away, Andakar nodded toward the gentle mound before us and asked, "Is this a grave?"

"Uh-huh," I replied a little cautiously.

"Your mother's?"

I was occupied with biting into the honey pastry so I just nodded. I wasn't sure I should even be talking to him about it.

"I was told what happened," Andakar went on. _Told what? _I couldn't help wondering. "It's a shame that it wasn't—"

He grew suddenly quiet and I glanced at him. He was still looking toward Mom's grave, but his expression had grown intent and wary.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

I scrambled frantically and awkwardly to my feet, clutching my lute and spilling the nice little paper parcel onto the ground, which was a damn shame. But the honey pastry and where it had come from were suddenly the least of my problems. Andakar rose slowly and with much more grace, not being intimidated—sorry, make that scared shitless—like me.

I hadn't even heard him approach, but Dad stood there, just a short distance away, his fists clenched and his face darkly mottled. He was frightening to look at—at least to me—but with his unhealthy leanness and disheveled appearance, he looked pathetic as well, and not just to me, I was sure.

He took a couple of steps forward. He glared with hatred and contempt at Andakar, but spoke to me. "I asked you a question, boy!" His voice was hoarse with rage.

I opened my mouth, but I was damned if I could make anything come out. Andakar spoke for me. Maybe he thought he was doing me a favor, but he wasn't.

"He's been paying his respects to his departed mother." He said it simply, but it sure hit my ears as a bit high and mighty. He wasn't likely to get on my dad's good side, not that he ever had much chance even in the best of circumstances.

"You shut up!" Dad snapped back. "And clear out! I don't want your kind here!" He turned back to me, pointing at Andakar. "Did you bring him here?" he demanded. "If you did, you're in a bigger shitload of—"

"N—no, Dad!" I couldn't help but start to shake. "Honest! I—"

"I came here on my own," Andakar replied, level and calm. Thank Ishvala somebody was. "I came to see if he was all right after you had beaten him." His voice began to take on an angry edge that I hadn't heard before.

Dad strode up to him and gave him a shove, which didn't look that easy to do. They were of a height, but Andakar was much more solidly built. I'd seen Dad take on bigger men before and win, though. I backed away.

"Me and mine are none of your concern!" he growled. "So take your fancy clothes and your fancy airs and _piss off_!"

"You and yours are very much my concern," Andakar said. He turned to point to Mom's grave. "The dead as well as the living."

Oh no. I didn't want to see what was going to happen next, but if I covered my face I would have dropped my lute, and then I might as well dig a grave for myself next to my mom's.

My dad didn't waste any more time with outrage or incredulity. He skipped straight to throwing a punch. The next part happened very quickly and I nearly missed it, even with my eyes uncovered. Andakar shifted just enough for Dad's fist to skid past him. Then, with an impressive economy of movement involving his elbow and his foot, he knocked my dad flat on his back.

Dad was a little surprised at first, to say the least. I don't think he was even hurt. He flipped himself onto his feet and took another swing at Andakar, who caught his fist and clamped onto it.

"You have wronged your family!" Andakar declared. "I've come here to offer you the chance to set this right with them and with Ishvala!"

Dad was balling up his left fist but he froze with a quick drawn-in hiss, staring at Andakar. "You're a _priest_?"

"I'm still in my novitiate, but I'll soon—"

I could have told Andakar that my dad wouldn't give a bug's turd for where he was on his vocational path. With a roar of fury, Dad reached behind him and drew out his long-bladed knife. He swung it at Andakar, but _Saahad_ Novice took a nimble jump back.

"Is this all you know?"he demanded, purposely goading. Dad lunged again, but Andakar shifted just enough to be missed by a hair's breadth. "Is this the only answer you have for the gross injustice you've done to your son and his mother?" He effortlessly dodged another lunge of the knife. "Is this meaningless arrogance your only argument?"

Dad took a stance, gripping the hilt of his knife. "_Fight me, you bastard_!" he snarled.

"I suppose that answers my question." Andakar held up his hand. "I'll gladly fight you," he said. "If I lose, I'll leave and never trouble you again." He gave my dad a steady glare. "But if I win, you must agree to let me bring my master here to consecrate this ground and to say the proper prayers over this grave."

This was such a bad idea, and I would have mentioned that, but they had stopped paying any attention to me. Dad didn't relax, but he stilled for a moment. He wasn't any less angry, but his lips twisted in a grin.

I remember my dad having a really great smile, full of confidence and good humor and a little bit of mischief. I hadn't seen that in a long time. The grin on his face now was nothing like that. It was crooked and unwholesome and sinister. It made him look like a stranger.

"Well, now, if I can take you down a peg or two and not see your damn smug face," he replied, showing his teeth, "then we have an accord."

Andakar frowned. "Do we? Honor doesn't seem to be one of your stronger traits."

Dad drew himself up. "You're wrong about that, priestling." He tossed his knife to his left hand and extended his right. He could fight just as easily with both hands, but Andakar wouldn't know that. "I give you my word."

I stared in disbelief at Andakar as he stepped forward to shake my dad's hand. _You're actually falling for that?_ The moment Dad got hold of him, he heaved on his arm, sinking his knife into Andakar's belly.

That was the idea, anyway. The blade never made contact. Andakar twisted, gripping Dad's left wrist with his free hand. With a sweep of his leg, he knocked Dad's feet from under him, spun him, and dropped him on his face in the dirt.

Dad was up again in an instant. When he was inclined to give me that sort of advice, he told me to never stay on the ground in a fight. He backed up, sizing up his opponent with a little more circumspection. Andakar simply stood his ground, considering my dad with a more practiced eye than his age accounted for. With a terrible sinking feeling, I recalled something that I had once heard but gave little though to at the time, having until recently little to no contact with the priests of Ishvala. While in Ishval Proper, someone—I don't even know who—made mention of the _warrior_ priests and the rigors of their training. It was only an offhand comment, meant to illustrate how the speaker wasn't inclined to go to that sort of trouble for anything. I remembered that I silently agreed with that. At the time, I thought it was just book learning. Now I saw where I was wrong.

I stared at the two combatants with growing dread. One of them didn't stand a chance. I just didn't know which one.


	6. Chapter 6

**This is a long one. I wanted to get it all down on one page, so to speak.**

**Btw, I just started up a tumblr page for Sons of the Desert, adding accompanying music. Look for capnhoozits (keepin' it simple)**

**Chapter 6**

Dad had experience on his side. Don't get me wrong, he wasn't a brawler. But when life treats you rough you have to get rough back. Generally, anyone who knew Shua didn't cross him. Unlike me, though, they didn't have to live with him. Andakar had discipline, as well as what he must have thought was a righteous cause. If he thought this was supposed to benefit me somehow, I could have told him otherwise. Neither of them, of course, had consulted me. I would have reminded Dad that if he injured or killed not just one of the quality but a priest, he'd be in for it. If he himself were injured or killed, not that many people would care.

A fight is usually not a pretty thing to witness. But if not for the fact that this was between my dad and my first ever honest-to-God friend, it would have been fascinating to watch the two of them go at each other. They each moved with their own brand of grace, alternating between slow caution and lightning fast moves. Andakar was up bare-handed against someone wielding a knife, but that didn't seem to faze him. After a while, I noticed that Andakar seemed to be doing little in terms of offense. He was simply, and very adroitly, blocking every attack, whether it was a lunge or slash of the knife, a thrown fist, or a sweeping kick. He hadn't laid an actual blow on my dad.

Dad noticed it, too, and it was making him angry. "Is that all they teach you?" he jeered, just beginning to get winded. "I've fought old women better than you!"

It was pretty certain that that wasn't the sort of remark that would trouble Andakar, and he just continued the way he was and letting Dad get angrier and angrier. I just watched helplessly, knowing better than to try to intervene. Someone who ought to have known better but apparently didn't was Katri. Probably wondering where everyone had gotten off to, she suddenly burst through a nearby stand of _meskaas_.

She stared for a moment, then sent a furious look my way, as though the whole thing was my fault. Then she darted forward, straight for the two combatants. That was exactly what I figured she was going to do and I was already sprinting to cut her off. I wrapped my arms around her and swung her off her feet, making sure her arms were pinned down safely. I pulled her away as she thrashed like a wild animal.

"Lemme go, dumbass!" she snarled.

She wasn't that big or that strong, but it was all I could do to keep a hold on her. "Stay out of it!" I ordered her, putting as much manly authority into my voice as I could. That might have done the trick, but it might also have been the underlying fear in my voice that really caught her attention. "This is between them!"

"It's your fault, anyhow!" she grumbled back with another thrash. No surprises there. I could hear the fear in her voice, too. "You brung that priesty guy here! Now they're fightin' 'cause o' you! Stupid dumbass!"

"They're not fighting over me," I replied, keeping my voice low. "They're fighting over Mom."

Katri drew in a hissing breath. That made her grow still, breathing hard. "How come?" she demanded in a scared whisper.

I kept my arms around her, just in case. "You'll find out soon enough, I think."

Dad's movements were becoming less skilled and more erratic, and this was when Andakar switched tactics. He grabbed Dad's wrist, and with a few quick jabs to that must have deadened his arm, the knife fell to the ground. Dad dove to retrieve it with his good arm but he never even got close to it. Andakar delivered blow after telling blow, one to the jaw, one to the shoulder, another to the ribs. Dad blocked as many as he could, but Andakar was simply too fast and too precise.

Katri made another attempt to break free. "That bastard's gonna kill 'im!" she gasped.

"No, he's not!" Apart from knowing that that wasn't Andakar's intention, it looked like the strikes that he made weren't meant so much to injure as to disable. Sure, he was trying to knock what he felt was some sense into my dad's hard-as-a-rock skull, but he probably wanted him to survive the lesson so he could learn from it. That's what I hoped, anyway.

Dad was finally getting worn out, and with a good kick to the back of the knee, Andakar dropped him. Then he stepped back as my dad hunched over in a crouch, his breathing labored.

"If your word means anything," Andakar said calmly, "I will hold you to—"

From his crouch, Dad made a sudden lunge. It took Andakar a little off guard, but not by much. Sending an elbow into his back, he drove Dad to the ground, this time landing on top of him with his knee in his back. He twisted one of Dad's arms behind him and pressed his face against the dirt.

"You're done!" Andakar declared. "Stop this now and keep to our accord!"

Dad made a couple more struggles, unwilling to concede, but Andakar had the advantage of bulk. After a few moments, Dad lay still, his teeth still bared in rage and his breathing raising puffs of dirt. Then he looked at us, Katri and me. He didn't say anything. He just watched us for a minute or so. His eyes met mine, and I would have looked away except that it wasn't anger that I saw there. It wasn't shame, either, for having lost a fight. It was close to the look he'd given me yesterday when he was looking at the stitches on my face. It was a look of profound sorrow. Then he closed his eyes, the moment having past.

He grimaced. "Ishvala, you're heavy! Get the hell off me!"

"Not until I'm sure you'll keep your word," Andakar answered sternly.

Dad blew out a weary breath. "Yes, I'll keep my damn word!"

Andakar straightened up, not without a little caution. Dad lay there for a few more moments, then pushed himself up to his knees. As he paused, Andakar held out a hand to help him up, but Dad just glanced at him with a venomous look and got slowly and stiffly to his feet.

Andakar stepped back. "I'll return tomorrow at this time with my master."

Dad was still bent over a little, propping his hands on his knees. "You do that," he mumbled.

With a parting glance and a nod to me, Andakar turned and left. Dad slowly straightened, rolling his shoulders with a grimace. Then he began to head back, passing Katri and me without a look. We watched him, awestruck, bewildered, whatever you like. I had no idea what to say, but I felt I ought to say something.

"Dad…" I started weakly.

He just lifted his hand, still not looking at me or pausing. "Not a word out of you," he said. He sounded so weary. Not angry, though, or at least not in the usual way. I always tried to get a good read on him so I would know when to get out of his way. But right now, I couldn't figure him out, other than the fact that he probably wanted to be left alone. One thing I could tell, though. He was shaken up by more than just the fight.

Katri elbowed me in the ribs. "Get yer hands offa me!" she growled.

I let her go and she turned around to glare at me. There were tears in her eyes. "If Shua gets any more hurt, I'm never gonna forgive you, Dejan!" Then she stormed off, probably to go throw a rock at something.

Well, at least she didn't call me dumbass. There was some hope left in the world.

8888

I followed my master through the _vatrishi_ camps, the _meskaa_ wood box that held the incense in my hands. We spoke very little during the long walk from the Kanda temple. The day before, when I told him that I had persuaded the _vatrish_ Shua into having the funeral prayers chanted over Dejan's mother's grave, my master was pleased. When I confessed how I had persuaded him, my master grew quiet. He was not necessarily displeased, as far as I could tell, and he agreed to officiate.

"We shall see what sort of fruit your methods will bear," he told me with a penetrating look.

He took no notice of the roughness of the area. He strode along as if he was on the streets of North Kanda. Along the way, we came across a number of lean-tos and makeshift shelters that served as permanent homes for these wretched people. During my two previous visits, I had attracted some attention. I was pointed at and whispered about as I passed the ragged men and women who lived here.

This time, accompanied by my master, we attracted yet more notice, so much so that as we passed along, they began to trail along behind us. I was unsure whether to be uneasy about this. My master showed no concern at all. A slight smile even appeared under his mustache. Then I saw among this group of people an old woman being carried between two of the men, a funeral shawl draped over her head. By the time we reached the grave, we have accumulated quite a following. My original impression of this place was that its inhabitants kept to themselves, isolated even from each other. I had apparently underestimated their sense of community.

At the grave, there waited half a dozen women of various ages who regarded our arrival with curious interest. After several moments, I realized that these were the unfortunate souls who were forced to sell themselves to survive—the _falshaii_. At first, it seemed as though they had merely gathered there to gossip, but as we stopped at the side of the grave, they covered their heads with threadbare shawls. I looked back at the group that had followed us and saw that the few women among them had covered their heads as well.

Along with the _falshaii_ was a small man with a hunched shoulder. He bobbed his head and grinned a gap-toothed smile at us.

"An honor, _Saahadi_! An honor, to be sure!" he greeted. He cackled briefly. "Shua's not here yet. I'll lay you a free round he doesn't show."

One of the _falshaii _scoffed. She looked as though she might be the eldest but they nearly all looked as though they had aged somewhat before their time. "Oh, he'll be here, Vash, don't you worry!" She turned to us with a knowing look. "In his sort of own way, he's a good man, our Shua."

The hunchback lifted his mismatched shoulders indifferently. "I'll believe it when I see 'im."

"I would imagine he would be here if he had gone to the trouble of informing you all," Bozidar reasoned.

"Oh, not him!" one of the other women replied. She jerked her thumb toward yet another of their number. "Her girl Katri, the one Shua took off her hands, she's the one who came and told us."

"Nice of her to visit her ma once in a while," this woman sighed, then let out a little chuckle.

"Eyes big as the moon, she had," the first woman said. "She couldn't believe anyone could beat down Shua." She pointed at me. "She don't like you much."

"She don't much like anybody," Katri's mother replied with another laugh.

This seemed more like a festival atmosphere than a funeral. I supposed allowances ought to be made, considering the company. If I was to continue in my mission to minister to these people, I would need a better understanding of them. I was beginning to think that would take more of an effort than I first imagined.

"You must be that bright spark young Dejan told me about."

I turned to face the old woman who had been carried here. She stood propped up by one of the men and she regarded me with one ruby eye. The other was a pale, milky pink. "Don't pay too much mind to what Katri thinks," she went on. "You did our Dejan a kindness, and for that I thank you. He's a good boy."

"He's got more heart than brains, I'll grant you that," the hunchback remarked.

"Oh, hush, _djaari_!" one of the _falshaii_ scolded. She seemed younger than the rest. "I'd take heart over brains any day you like!"

The hunchback cackled. "As if you've had any offers!"

The women jeered back at him with coarse good nature. Then they all grew quickly silent, nudging each other, some of them pointing in the same direction with a jerk of their chins. My master and I both turned to see Dejan come walking up, followed by Katri. Shua trailed along behind them. His aspect was strained. He looked as though he had not slept for days and his complexion, as tawny as any Ishvalan, seemed pale. When he took in the crowd gathered by the grave, he stared with consternation and muttered an oath under his breath.

Dejan gave me a nod of acknowledgement, which I returned. Katri gave me a glare and went to stand by herself, her arms folded tightly.

Dejan approached my master. He gave an awkward little bow and cleared his throat. "Um…_doishteve, Saahad_," he mumbled. "Thanks for coming."

My master searched Dejan's face, which was still bruised. He gave a nod. "Uvar did a good job," he remarked. "Does it still hurt?"

Dejan reached his fingers up to his stitches but didn't touch them. "No, not so much, thank you." He drew himself up. "I'm still going to pay him, you know. I promise!"

"After you pay me for my glasses!" the hunchback retorted. "Eight hundred cenz those cost me!"

Dejan let out a weary sigh, and my master raised his hand. "Your debt to the temple is less worldly than that, my son. Don't concern yourself overmuch about it."

Turning to face Shua, who still lingered on the outskirts of the gathering, my master stretched out his hand. "Step forward, my son," he said gently. "Our temple did you a disservice by not inquiring further after your needs."

Shua stirred his shoulders dismissively but otherwise did not move. "Nobody asked you," he muttered back.

"Even so," my master replied. "Today we make amends."

He reached down and slipped the sandals from his feet. He turned to me and gestured toward the box in my hands. I opened it and held it as my master gathered the brass bowl, the bag of myrrh, and a small box of matches. He poured a generous amount of incense into the bowl and lit it with a match. Soon, a sharp tang filled the air as smoke rose from the bowl. Lifting one end of his _chuva_, he carefully placed the bowl there so as not to burn his hands. Murmuring softly, he slowly paced around the grave three times, holding the bowl out before him to consecrate the ground. This done, he bent down to slide the bowl from his _chuva_ to rest on top of the grave itself.

All this time, the group around us had maintained a silence of surprising reverence, not just out of curiosity. My master glanced at me as he stood back up and, after slipping off my own sandals, I joined him at his side. He began the chant of invocation and went on to the litany. I supplied the responses. Those gathered should have done so as well, but it was questionable whether any of them had even heard these prayers before. Shortly, however, after the tones had been repeated a few times, some of them joined in. Others even broke into quiet harmonies. I had forgotten that most of them were musicians of a sort, and if they could not manage the ancient tongue, they at least hummed along.

The funeral rite progressed much like any other. From time to time, I stole a glance at Dejan to see how he was holding up. I could hear him singing softly in the responses, and this seemed to offer him some comfort. I had already come across him singing beside his mother's grave, and now here were so many others doing just that.

I also glanced over at Shua, who had not come any closer than where he stopped. He avoided looking toward the grave and only stared at the ground, his face pale and his jaw set as though in pain. It was possible that he may have been trembling, but it was not a cold day. I was distracted enough to miss the change in tones and my master was forced to wait for a second or two as I gathered my thoughts. I stopped looking around and applied myself to concentrating on the task at hand.

We had entered smoothly into the third of the five litanies when we were interrupted by a curious sound, a short, strangled groan. I faltered in mid-response as I looked over at Shua. He had covered his face with his hands and it seemed as though he was slowly collapsing, doubling over on himself. From between his hands he sucked in a breath and let out a low, tortuous moan, ending with a coughing sob. Drawing in another great breath, he dropped to his knees, weeping loudly and brokenly.

Everyone present stared at him. Dejan seemed transfixed, a look of dismay and near-horror on his face. Katri ran to Shua's side and seemed to dance in place, alternately reaching toward him and flinching back.

"Shua!" she cried. "Shua!" He could make no reply to her and she turned on me. "What'd you do to him?" she demanded with frantic anger. "What'd you do? He don't _never _cry!"

I couldn't take my eyes off Shua. Yes, of course I had witnessed displays of grief at the side of a grave, some more heartfelt than others. It wasn't even so much what I was seeing. This man's anguish came off him in waves like heat that I could feel on my face. It seemed as though I could even feel it through the soles of my bare feet. When I could tear my eyes away, I looked at my master for some kind of guidance.

He merely gazed back at me with the patience of the ages. "Answer the child, Andakar," he instructed me quietly.

It was all on me, then. I turned back to Shua and slowly approached him. Katri glared daggers at me, tears leaving dusty tracks on her cheeks. I looked down at Shua. I didn't know what to say, but my master was expecting an answer, even though I was sure he already knew it. I had to piece it together on my own.

I was visited by a feeling of shame. I still felt in my heart that what I had done was right, but somehow, something seemed wrong. I had been proud, but now I felt humbled. I had thought that this man crouched before me was cruel, but I had cruelly misjudged him.

I lowered myself to one knee before him. I reached my hand out cautiously, fearing that if I touched him, he might shatter. I laid my hand on his shoulder.

"You have—" I almost couldn't speak and I swallowed. "You have never allowed yourself to grieve," I said, coming to this realization even as I spoke it. "To do so would mean to acknowledge her death, and you could not bring yourself to do that."

Shua wept harder, as though my words tore the sorrow from his very soul. I went on, searching desperately for what little wisdom I could offer. "You must, in your heart, release her into Ishvala's keeping. You cannot bear this burden alone."

It was all I could think of, and it sounded trite, the simplest of counsels. But this time it rang so deeply true, and I had not, until this moment, expected it to ring true of this man. He reached up to his shoulder and gripped my hand. I thought perhaps that he was going to tear it away, but he gasped it tightly and held onto it. He then lifted it from his shoulder and brought it with both his hands to press it against his forehead.

I froze. This may have been a sign of respect, but my face burned with shame. Our roles should have been reversed.

Shua's weeping had quieted, and he still held my hand in place as though it afforded him some comfort. He could not speak, but the gratitude in his gesture was clear. I gently laid my hand against the back of his head, and bending closer, I whispered my own thanks.

As he finally relinquished his hold, I stood. Katri dropped to her knees beside him, wrapping an arm across his back, gentler than I had yet seen her. Dejan came up to kneel at his father's side as well, and I left Shua in their care, all three of them crying softly.

I returned to continue with the funeral rite, certain that Shua wished us to do so. As I joined my master's side, he gave me a brief look of approval, and he began the third litany again. The rest of the ritual flowed smoothly, and those gathered there had picked up the rhythm and cadence to the point where together we sounded as solemn and glorious as a gathering in the Great Temple.

At the conclusion, Shua and his little family remained huddled together. But this time, Shua had his arms around them, and Dejan and Katri wept healing tears. A few of the people had quickly slipped away. The rest went to Shua and his children to give them reassuring pats on the head or back.

The old woman, with the help of her escort, hobbled up to them, laying her hand on Dejan's head. "Tears are not always bad things, _lahaat_," she murmured with a quiet little chuckle. She reached into the folds of her clothing and produced a coin. Turning to my master and me, she held it out to us. "Thank you for your kindness, _Saahadi_."

The _falshaii_ came forward as well, holding out coins. "Thanks, _Saahadi_," the eldest one said.

It was, of course, customary, but my master considered the coins being held out to him. "Are you sure you can spare this?" he asked. "Truly, we need no recompense."

The woman smirked. She took my master's hand and pressed the coin into it. "Then let it pay for Dejan's stitches."

My master bowed his head. "Then I will not insult you by refusing."

He accepted whatever coinage the others offered him. Even the hunchback shuffled up and handed us a couple of copper coins. With a bob of his head, he turned away. As he passed by Shua, he gave him a clap on the back, then did the same to Dejan.

"Forget about the glasses," he told them. "Come on over later and we'll have ourselves a bit of a shindy to remember Maya."

Bozidar tipped the coins from his palm into the wooden box. It did not even add up to much, but it seemed like a great treasure. Our work here being concluded, we put our sandals back on and made our departure. Shua rose stiffly to his feet, wiping a sleeve across his face. He looked at us, one after the other. He opened his mouth to say something, but he seemed to struggle for the words.

My master pressed his hand against the man's shoulder. "Will you be all right?" he asked.

Shua nodded. "Yeah," he murmured. "I guess so." Dejan and Katri had risen along with him and he held them close. "We'll be all right."

"Good," Bozidar said with a nod. "My pupil here will call on you again soon."

Shua gave me a look with ebbing sorrow and growing wry humor. "Aye, this one won't leave us alone, I daresay." Then he frowned. "Uh…I've got no money on me…"

My master shook his head. "No, my son, we've been sufficiently rewarded." In turn, he placed his hand on their heads. "Ishvala's blessings on all of you."

We left them to themselves and their lost loved one. Our surroundings hadn't changed, but there was a palpable difference to this place. It was not a desperate refuge for society's castoffs. It was not a place of dust and despair. It was a home. I groaned to myself.

My master laughed quietly. "You have learned what you have learned."

"I have, _Saahad_," I admitted. "I made such a point of everyone being equal in the eyes of God, and all this time, my own eyes were blind. Oh, _Saahad_, what you must think of me!"

"Ah, my son, did I not tell you that the voice of your heart was the clearest because that is where you hear Ishvala's voice the best?"

I shook my head despairingly. "I wonder about that sometimes."

My master laughed. "Well, truthfully, so do I. But don't ever stop listening."

"_Hai!_ Wait up a second!"

We paused and turned to see Dejan jogging up behind us. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his smile displayed a lighter heart.

"Dad wants you to come over to Vashto's tonight! I mean"—he cast a self-conscious glance between Bozidar and me. "—if it's all right to ask you that." He gave a bit of a shrug. "It's a tavern, you know, and…well…it's also a…you know…"

Bozidar clapped a firm hand onto my shoulder. "Andakar will be honored," he replied. "I must decline. My aged master is ready to enter into Ishvala's bosom and I would like to be at his side."

Dejan looked at me hopefully. I couldn't possibly refuse.


	7. Chapter 7

**A very happy Mothers Day to one and all, even if you don't technically qualify.**

**Chapter 7**

It was the kind of feeling you get from a good, hard rain shower after months of bone dry heat and you think it's never going to rain again. It washed away all the darkness and the worry and the anger. I mean, we were still sad about Mom, but it was the right kind of sad. We were able to talk about the good times again. And I had my dad back. He smiled, he laughed, he didn't crawl into a bottle to hide from the grief that kept chasing him, begging to be recognized.

In an unheard of gesture of generosity, Vashto nailed up a sign at the door of his tavern to say that it was closed (he was one of the very few of us who could read or write) and we had a party. This might not be how they did things in Isvhal Proper, but, well, we weren't.

All us _vatrishi_ got together and played. Normally, we were each other's fiercest competition, struggling to earn a few coins at the gatherings and festivals of the quality. We'd tear each other down just to get a job. But when we got together, just for fun, we were glorious! We all knew the same songs, or we'd join in on something somebody else had come up with, it didn't matter. It was just for our own amusement, really, but I couldn't help thinking what a great show we could all put on together. I mentioned this to the other _vatrishi_, but they just laughed and told me I was crazy.

The _falshaii_, having the night off, cooked a nice little feast. _Baata_ Nifaa even came, supplying eggs and vegetables. She sat in one corner with her teapot, offering to read our leaves. I wasn't quite ready to go through that again, even though it had turned out better than I could have imagined.

And, oh, sweet Ishvala, Dad _sang_!

He hadn't done that since before Mom died. Sure, he had played his instruments like nobody else could, flute, fiddle, lute, bagpipe, drum, but that was just to survive. It was like he had locked it away somewhere deep inside of him, never to see the light of day again. I guess Andakar helped opened that part of him up again. His voice was so rich and fiery and it hadn't lost anything by being hidden away for so long.

And just when I thought he might not show, who should step through the door but Andakar himself. He looked just a little nervous, but everyone greeted him like an old friend. One of the _falshaii _even went up and kissed him on the cheek. I felt kind of sorry for him because he must have been embarrassed as hell, but he took it pretty well.

Dad strode right up to him and gave him a hard hug. Facing the company, he called out, "How do you like this? This is real quality right here!" He turned to Andakar. "You've done me and mine a great service, you know that?"

"Not until after I did you a disservice," Andakar admitted. "I misjudged you." He gave a rueful smirk. "I told my master that you were wicked."

Dad burst out laughing. "Ah, but I am wicked! Aren't I, Vash?" he called to the tavern keeper.

"You're the worst villain alive!" Vashto answered back amiably.

"Have a seat!" Dad told Andakar. "Come and join us!" He steered him toward the table I was sitting at and pushed him down into one of the chairs. Sitting down next to him, Dad leaned his arm on the table and gave him a steady look.

"I knew there was a need, you see," he said as though picking up a conversation they'd already started, which, in a way, they had. "But I was so angry, at myself, mainly, because I couldn't take care of her. I couldn't keep her from dying. And I took that anger out on your lot, on my poor boy here"—he reached out and gave my hair a rough tousle—"and most of all, on Ishvala, for taking her away from me." He shook his finger at Andakar. "But the Creator sent you my way to knock some sense into me."

Andakar shook his head. "I don't presume to see myself as an instrument of God. I think I was sent to learn my own lesson."

"Ah, well…" Dad lifted his hands and dropped them. "In a way, I haven't lost Maya. She may have gone to Ishvala, but all the world lies in Ishvala's bosom, isn't that what they say?"

Andakar smiled and nodded. "They do, indeed."

One of the _falshaii_, the youngest one, Avizeh, walked up to where we were sitting. "You haven't had anything to eat or drink, _Saahad_," she said. "What can we get you?"

"Nothing, thank you," Andakar replied. He looked from her to Dad and me. "And you don't need to call me _Saahad_. I haven't taken my final vows."

"Well, if you're going to be making a pest of yourself around here," Dad replied with a grin, "we may as well get used to it. But what about it? Some _halmi_? We can water it down for you, like Dejan's got."

"_Baata_ Nifaa's got her teapot going," Avizeh put in. "That's probably more likely, eh?"

Andakar nodded, looking just a little relieved. "That would be fine."

Avizeh sauntered off and returned with a cup of tea. "There you go!"

We played a few more songs, raised a glass or two to my mom, to my dad, to Andakar, to Ishvala—well, maybe more than a glass or two. Dad actually kept his head and made sure I did, too. Things quieted down a bit and I could sit for a while with Andakar.

"What do you think of our playing?" I asked him. This was what I did best and I was anxious for his approval.

"It's amazing!" he replied. "My brother has a couple of friends who are musicians, but they don't have the same sort of…" He paused to think. "Passion, I suppose."

I nodded. "Well, this is our meat and drink, so we have to be better."

Andakar put on a thoughtful look and said, "You know, my master is officiating at a wedding in a few days. One of my family's neighbors in North Kanda. They're looking for someone to play—"

I didn't think twice. "I'll do it! We'll do it! Dad and me! I mean—uh—we can clean ourselves up a bit first—" I waved Dad over. "Hey, Dad! Come here!" I didn't say why. The others would try to jump in and push us out of the way. We might have sounded great together, but I wouldn't share a real job with them.

Dad came over and sat down. "What's up?"

I leaned closer to him and lowered my voice. "Andakar here has a job for us in town! In _North Kanda_!" I added in a whisper. I don't think any of us had been all the way to North Kanda.

Dad looked at me, impressed, then turned to Andakar. "North Kanda? That's grand, that is!" He rubbed his chin, glancing to the left and right to make sure nobody was listening in. "Five hundred cenz an hour."

"Hm." Andakar frowned. "One of my brother's friends mentioned charging a thousand cenz an hour."

I tried not to cough up my drink.

"Yes, well…" Dad gestured at me and at himself. "The quality aren't going to pay that much for a couple of desert rats like us."

Andakar gave a little shrug. "Not yet."

Dad considered this with a thoughtful look then gave a nod. "There's something to that." He frowned. "Shit, we're gonna need nicer clothes."

That was a bit of a problem. We couldn't really afford new clothes, not until we got paid, and we would need them if we wanted to show up in North Kanda.

"I'll talk to my aunt," Andakar said. "I'm sure she'll be willing to make you a couple of shirts and you can pay her after you get your money."

Dad brought his hand down on the table, but not so loud as to attract attention. "Done!" he declared. "Now, where do we find this place?"

"I'll write it down for you," Andakar offered.

Dad scoffed. "Don't bother. I wouldn't be able to read it."

Andakar looked at me, a little surprised. "What about—"

I shrugged. "Me neither."

"Oh." He considered this for a moment, then said, "I'll teach you."

Dad just chuckled, but my eyes widened. "Would you?"

"Of course!"

"Ah, now, _Saahad_," Dad said with a bit of a grimace. "We've already taken up so much of your time."

"No, you see," Andakar countered, "this is what I have chosen to do with my time. It is my wish to minister to you here, to compensate for the neglect you've all suffered and to help you better your lives. I'll teach anyone who wants to be taught. And before you ask, no, I don't expect or even want any payment."

Dad sat back and regarded him thoughtfully for a few moments. Then he turned to me. "Well, son, you think you could manage?"

I grinned. "Try and stop me!" I gave him a pleading look. "You should, too, Dad!"

Dad waved a hand. "No, I don't have…" he started to growl, then he paused. He gave Andakar a determined look. "Damn it, if you're willing to take the time, then so am I."

Andakar brought his hand down on the table. "Done!"

Dad laughed and turned in his chair, looking for Katri. She was sitting at one of the other tables, munching on some dates and spitting the seeds onto the floor. "_Hai_, _laleh!_" he called to her. "You wanna learn how to read and write like a proper little girl?"

The look she gave him would've turned milk to cheese. Dad turned back around with a shrug. "I tried."

Andakar took the last few sips of his tea and set his cup down. Thinking he might want some more, I looked toward where _Baata _Nifaa was sitting and saw that she was on her feet, shuffling toward us with the help of a stick. She came up behind Andakar and laid a bony hand on his shoulder. She peered down at his cup and I got a very uncomfortable feeling.

She reached out and made a little twirling motion with her finger. "Give your cup a bit of a swirl, _Saahad_, and I'll read your leaves for you."

"Maybe you shouldn't do that, _baata,_" I said quickly. "I mean, he's—"

She waved my remark aside. "Oh, hush, _lahaat_! I know my business!"

"It's all right, Dejan," Andakar said. "There's no harm in it."

He picked up his tea cup and swirled it around a few times. Nifaa mumbled for a bit, then reached out for the cup. Suddenly, all around us, it got very quiet and I looked around. Everyone was watching the old woman, waiting for whatever pronouncement she came up with. She held the cup in her wrinkled fingers for a few moments and gave a little frown, then a shrug. "A circle," she said, as though she expected something a bit more exciting.

Everyone else seemed a bit disappointed as well. They may have thought she'd see something like "danger" or "glory" or something grand.

"Ah, well." Nifaa set the cup down. "Make of that what you will."

_**Four Years Later**_

Things got better.

Just like he said he would, Andakar taught Dad and me how to read and write. It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. Dad picked it right up, but I wasn't too far behind. Katri had no time for any of it. She never did take a liking to Andakar.

He would come and preach to us a bit, now and then, when we were of a mind to come together and listen. The _vatrishi _were pretty set in their ways, though, and when Andakar encouraged us to come to the Kanda temple for prayers, no one was overanxious to go. I thought I might brave it someday.

Even the _falshaii _would sometimes come and listen to him. He didn't judge and he made them feel a little better than they were. They certainly had no intention of setting foot in a temple, either, but they appreciated the effort Andakar made. Avizeh was the one who took it most to heart, breaking into tears one day. She had never really grown used to this life. Andakar, bless him, managed to get her a position in his parents' household. One of the maidservants had left to get married and they were looking for someone else. Avizeh was smart and fairly tidy and handy in the kitchen. Andakar's mother was in on it because he's always hated to lie. She didn't have any problem with telling her husband that Avizeh was just a decent girl from a poor section of Daliha who had no family. That was absolutely true, but that was before she became a _falsha_. Vashto wasn't best pleased, but the other women were happy for her.

It was entirely possible that one or two of Andakar's father's distinguished guests may have made the occasional visit to Vashto's, but they would never admit to recognizing Avizeh. Her secret was pretty safe.

Andakar was also good about getting us jobs in Ishval Proper, even for some of the other _vatrishi_. Dad and I were the ones whose reputation grew and folks started asking for us especially. When Andakar was finally made a priest, his folks threw him a little party. And who do you think provided the musical entertainment? That's right.

Things got worse, too.

In 1901, some damn crazy bluecoat shot a little girl in the head. Nobody ever really figured out why, not as though the Amestrians tried that hard. All the tension that was poised and ready to explode did just that, and Ishval became a battlefield. We kept our heads down as best we could. Some of the _vatrishi_ joined in the fighting and got killed for their trouble. Neither Dad nor I were that motivated.

Andakar would be called upon to use those fighting skills of his against the bluecoats. He began to grow hard and stern and he didn't smile as much anymore. Another casualty of war.

There were a few bright spots, though. Every now and then there would be a lull in the fighting, and we would still get a wedding or something to play at, even if it was just to get fed. A close friend of Andakar's cousins was able to celebrate her fifteenth birthday in relative peace. It was in a nice little neighborhood in South Kanda. The girl, Rada, was awfully pretty, and even with the oppressive threat of war, she glowed with joy.

We had met Andakar's cousins before. They and their parents were a lot more down to earth than Andakar's folks were. We were welcomed more like friends than the hired help. They loved to dance and they sang along with us like they did it every day.

The oldest, Damyan, was fascinated by the bagpipe Dad played. The next eldest, Naisha, planted herself in front of us like a bold cactus wren.

"My fifteenth is next year!" she announced. "Will you come and play for me?"

"God willing, _laleh_," Dad told her as he drew his bow across the strings of his fiddle.

She gave a little giggle, clapped her hands, and tripped away.

"You'd better watch that," Dad warned.

I looked at him blankly. "Huh?"

He jerked his chin toward the girl as she rejoined her younger sister, Vesya, the shy one. "Katri'll kick your teeth in if she finds out you've been looking at other girls."

I sighed. We never brought Katri on these jobs. She couldn't behave herself if her life depended on it. My relationship with her was becoming complicated and tempestuous. Which basically means I can't explain it. "I wasn't _looking_, Dad. I was just…looking."

He gave a snort of a laugh. "It's all right. I won't tell. That one's too skinny anyhow."

I just shook my head and rolled my eyes.

Andakar stepped up to us. "Make sure you take time to eat."

"We'll play a few more dances first," Dad said. "We want them to get their money's worth."

He started up a tune to signal the guests to get into line. The birthday girl, who could now dance next to whoever she liked, hurried up to Andakar and grabbed one of his hands, her smile lighting up her face and pretty much everything else.

"Come and dance, _Saahad_!" she cried, pulling on his arm.

He could take on a squad of bluecoats without batting an eye and without mercy, but Andakar had absolutely no defense against that smile and those eyes. Without so much as a see-you-later to us, he let Rada drag him away.

While he played, Dad gave a laugh and shook his head. "Poor bastard's got it bad!" he said, loud enough so I could hear him over my drum but no one else could.

I just nodded. I thought it a shame that for all the good work he had done, Andakar had to give up so much. But when he put his mind to something, he put his whole heart and soul into it, too. He kind of wouldn't be him if he didn't.

Things got a lot worse before they got better. The war took a bitter toll and so many were lost. Andakar, I think, lost himself nearly to the point of not being able to come back. When a heart as great as his breaks, it doesn't make a little noise. The circle that _Baata_ Nifaa saw in his leaves was something that I never quite understood, and he was reluctant to talk about it. It was apparently one hell of a big circle. I prefer the notion that Nifaa's reading had more to do with our journey. That was one hell of a big circle, too, but it still brought us home.

* * *

><p><strong>Wow, I didn't think I was ever going to finish that one. Now I need to go back and change several things in Sons of the Desert so that they match up. Keep an eye out for redone chapters.<strong>


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